Crunched and crumbled

Monday February 12th., Trinity Hall Farm.

A bicycling excursion to Maldon, Essex, yesterday in spite of the weather. Cold air was exhilarating once one became used to it. Very hungry when we got there and enjoyed a considerable lunch in an old-fashioned hotel. Pretty serving maid. The whole place is old-fashioned. I liked it.

We stood on a bridge over the Blackwater at the bottom of the town. There was snow everywhere, a very keen frost, and a bright moon approaching the full. On either side of the river the warehouses and wharves were silhouetted in deep tones. The tide was coming in, and we could hear a faint continuous crackling, or mysterious rustling as the ice, constantly forming, was crunched and crumbled gently against the projecting piles of the wharves. We stood quite still in the silent town and listened to this strange soft sound. Then we threw tiny pebbles over the bridge and they slid along the surface of the river. The water froze in broad areas as it passed under the bridge.

We saw a very fat and aged woman walking home very carefully. The road was extremely slippery, and a fall would have been serious to one of her age and weight. Serious for us as well because we would have had to go to her assistance. To me she seemed a rather pathetic figure balancing along ... And yet, if I have learned anything, it is not to be spendthrift of pity. She would be all right.