Our winters are full of blankets. We’re living in a house, built cheaply in 1937, when all money in Germany went in to preparation of WWII. Rearmament instead of building solid housing for the people. Back than, people loved it or simply did not care. To fresh was the memory of depression and poverty to not celebrate the “Autobahn, holidays, radios and cars for everyone” promises of the ruling Nazis. But:
Back to our house.
The walls are thin, above the windowsill huge gaps are looming, standing up roaring each night with the winter storms. Water flows in here and there, ice is its witness in the morning. It makes you understand, how hard your ancestors might have been fighting each year to pull the kids healthily through the winter until spring dawned and the days got longer and warmer again.
Our winters, however, even though spent in an old house with no proper heating, are wonderful:
We order wood via the phone from the local farmer, who’s not yet on the Internet. It comes to the door step. We don’t even have to chop it, our wood. We easily burn down one 100-year-old tree in a week, when everybody is at home. The wood looks white and innocent, when it is sitting there. I can see, that rough bark is actually only a very, very thin layer. A tree is a pretty remarkable creature. Sometimes, I wonder what might be if entire Europe would go back to wood-firing.
Oh, here are blankets in England.