Dreams of a white Christmas have been washed away for many people this year, as storms have toppled trees on power lines, turned roads to rivers and swollen lakes. We have been lucky; a restless night and cup of tea at 3-am the night before Christmas Eve was the only trouble the storm brought us. Boxing Day morning dawned bright and sunny with an icing of frost. After our traditional post-Christmas-left-overs breakfast it was a delight to escape the beckoning of the sofa and dreary TV, and head out for a stroll in the fresh air. The sunlight slanted through the trees, their branches sparkling and dripping into great rippling puddles. Standing in the middle of these puddles and looking downward, once the wellington-boot-stirred mud and ripples settled, gave the impression of a topsy-turvy world, far larger than should fit in the depth of a puddle, a delightful illusion where trees grow downwards and your feet touch the sky; birds fly below you. The reflections were so vast, and crystal clear, you could appear to be walking on sunshine!