Ivor Novello felt the chill in Cardiff Bay last week. The next day I left the house at 7.15am to catch a flight to Belfast. But snow and ice had ground Northern Ireland to a halt. So it was up to Glasgow by plane and then a chilly but festive train ride to Stranraer for a late-night ferry. Made it to Coleraine at 6.25am.
As the view from the bathroom window suggests, it is uncommonly cold at the moment.
Portstewart Strand become a strange, steaming phenomenon, with the seawater substantially warmer than the freezing air.
If you like big icicles, this is the place to come.
The dogs are having a splendid time. Although I'm becoming more convinced that Lyra, in the foreground, is actually the ruler of a distant galaxy who has been transported into the body of a charmily neurotic Lurcher crossbreed.
It is a very beautiful world and the absence of wind is infinitely preferable to the lashing, moist, grey wind which commonly blasts the north coast.