Just as term came to a close it started snowing insanely, all over Wales. The snowfall’s been sporadic and erratic. Drive north for an hour, to Shrewsbury, and there’s barely a dusting. Mid-Wales, from Newtown to Llandrindod, got dumped on. In our town there’s over a foot. This means trouble for people with real jobs and things to do. For me, since I no longer have to commute to Cheltenham to teach (at least until the new year), it’s been a gift.

Each morning I get up and work. During term time I’ve struggled to write anything. My pen has been sitting in a drawer, well-oiled but unused (you can blame Hemingway for that particularly sexual metaphor). But my pen is getting used now. Before noon, at least. I’ve never been one of those writers who can write all day. Carver said he enjoyed writing for thirteen and fourteen hour stretches – completely immersing himself in it. I’m no Carver. I burn out after three or four hours. So at about noon I’ve been clocking off to grab a bite to eat. Then I take my snowboard up the hill behind our house.

To get there, you cross the Llani bypass and hike through a farm. Then you cut across a creek to reach the base of the hill. It’s a big hill. By the time you make it to the top, you’re always gasping. Then there’s this moment when you just sit in the cold, listening to cars on the bypass and appreciating the view of town and the surrounding hills. When you catch your breath, you drop in and carve down. It’s so cold up here right now (usually between –5 and –10) that the snow is soft and perfect and hisses gently beneath the base of your board.

It takes nearly fifteen minutes to hike up, fifteen seconds to ride down. This wears you out quickly so I’ve started building a jump. I found a natural lip halfway down the slope that I’ve used as a base. I’ve reached that age where I can’t quite ride like I used to – not that I was ever much good, compared to my friends – but after a few runs I usually manage to convince myself that I’ve still got the old magic. Mostly I’ve been busting out big old-school tricks. Lame methods and indies and tail grabs, with the occasional (half-assed) spin thrown in when I’m feeling up for it.

I generally stay up there for a few hours. It tires you out in a particular way. The fatigue creeps up on you slowly – a body-weariness that weakens your legs and makes you quiver. The board beneath your feet stops responding in the way you want it to, and you find you can’t stomp your landings anymore. When I fall I’m always reminded that I’m in Wales, not back home – since I usually smear through a big pile of frozen sheep shit. The snow is deep, but not that deep. After a few bails like that, I know it’s time to go in – but not before one more good run. I don’t like ending on a bad one. Like a lot of writers, I’m superstitious about these kind of things.

Back at the house, from four until six I’ll usually read and warm up by the fire. Then me and Nai cook and have a couple beers. Afterwards we might watch a movie or walk down to the pub. As far as days go, I know it’s nothing extraordinary. Write in the mornings, ride in the afternoons. Food, beer, and fun in the evenings. But I’ve realized it’s all I need, really. I’ve also realized it’s probably what Will gets to do every day – that lucky bastard – except with surfing instead of snowboarding. I may just have to move down there to live with him for awhile. One day.

For now, for me, I know reality will come back soon. I can’t live the life of a snowboarding artiste for more than a couple weeks. As Krakauer would say – or said – I’ve got to pay the fucking bills. If nothing else, term two will start and this snow will melt. It never lasts long in Wales. But while it does I’m grateful to have the combination of a pristeen white page and a pristine white slope, both waiting for me to make my mark.