Blood in the Snow

On the way home, I am drawn into the covered market, bustling and at full capacity although it's only half past nine on a very cold morning. As I duck into the entrance, I notice a few tiny snowflakes have fallen onto my shoulders.

Inside, the stalls groan with produce that glistens and glows. The scent of fresh bread wafts through the crowds and mingles with salty oysters and the heady perfume of freesias and narcissi. Wandering from stall to stall - handsome cuts of meat, glowing orbs of citrus fruit, freshly pressed apple juice, fifty different kinds of olives and twice as many cheeses - I am surrounded by the comforting, transporting hum of market chatter.

Women "d'un certain age" question stallholders over the freshness of their goods, raising their eyebrows over prices, splitting hairs. A man spends an age choosing three avocados: one for today, one for tomorrow and one for the next day, gently squeezing each one for a different degree of ripeness. Fishmongers hurl jokes at each other over the clatter of shells, and small groups of men stand smoking, huddled over tiny coffees, nudging and winking.

Suddenly I am distracted from this sensory smörgåsbord by one small stall, tucked away in the corner. Lemons, limes, some fine lemongrass and perky herbs and then, piled majestically high, the treasure I have been waiting for all year; February's finest reward. Blood oranges. They are stunning, orange swirled and speckled with crimson; Arabian sunsets. I can barely steal myself from clapping my hands with glee, and rush forward to buy as many as I can carry. When it's blood orange season, I can't resist bringing bagfuls home to put in bowls around the house; aside from their beauty, they make the best, hot-pink juice, intense sorbet and alluring cakes, and they bring much-needed bright smiles and sunshine to the dreariest month of the year.

Stepping out, laden with heavy bags, I stop still. Everything is white. Within fifteen minutes, what started as a few tiny sequins of snow has become a glittering blanket over the whole town, with snow still falling softly. The striking contrast of atmosphere and especially colour is surprisingly poignant; at once sad and achingly romantic. Blood-speckled oranges; pure white snow.