From the interior of the house looking out it is a beautiful day. Clear blue sky, the sun god riding his chariot through the heavens illuminating the pristine glory of newfallen snow on the landscape; what more could anyone ask for? There was a one-day window yesterday in the frigid air that has suddenly laid its icy heart on the atmosphere, so yesterday with all of us suitably winter-jacketed and booted we were out in the ravine.

It seems that although El Nino has triumphed this year, bringing in an unusually warmer winter, blocking the normal Arctic frigidity that expresses an Ottawa winter, La Nina has made a temporary venture into the winter scene, peeking out momentarily and in her curiosity aiding the Arctic chill to make its presence known, however briefly.

We had missed our usual ravine walk the day before, considering it at a high of minus 17 and a howling wind, just too miserable to make the effort. We watched yesterday with huge amusement as our two little pups frolicked and gambolled, their boots slapping the trail-pounded snow, as our own ground into the snow-padded forest floor, crunching audibly while all other ambient sound was absorbed by the overall white cushion. The cold was tolerable, since it was minus 6 degrees with just a mere whisper of wind. But the creek has finally frozen over, closing off the last avenue of live food possibilities for the robins that haunt the area in this weather, foolish enough to overlook their migratory instincts.

When my husband went downstairs this morning at 7:00 am to see what the outside electronic thermometer read, it was minus 27.5, and instead of rising, the temperature continued to fall so that a few hours later it was edging closer to minus 29 degrees, the wind whipping loose snow wildly off the roof. I don't recall the temperature ever plunging this low.

And there they were at the feeders: doves, goldfinches, chickadees, crows, juncos, nuthatches and house finches all politely waiting their turn, fluttering and resting in the nearby evergreens while squirrels chased one another in competition for the readily accessible seeds and nuts provisioned for them in the large flat rectangle feeder that also attracts the birds. How these tiny creatures can sustain life in such abominable conditions is a mystery.

This is the kind of weather when Jack and Jill need little sweaters to give them some protection from the bone-chilling cold where wind whips those icy daggers as deep into living flesh as it can. They aren't too eager to remain in the out-of-doors under these conditions any longer than is absolutely required. And since the high temperature for the next few days, including this one, will be just under minus 20 degrees Celsius, it's highly doubtful we'll feel the urge to get out into the ravine for our usual rambling hike.

"On 18.05.2015 at 8:00 a.m. I was going for work. These people started saying that we were told not to go to the factory, because bad things are happening at the factory. These people became angry and started abusing me and they threatened to kill me. I request you to lodge my report and take legal action."
"These people can beat me at any time."
 Pinki, married mother of four-year-old, factory worker, Peepli Khera, India

"They have everything: Clothes to wear. Enough to eat. Why would they need to work? They still have husbands. It's not just insulting to them, it's insulting to the whole village."
Dharmender, son of village chief Roshan, Peepli Khera, northeast of Delhi

For one of her university classes in history our granddaughter read a book about a little-known British woman born in the early 18th century who set out on her own to travel in the mysterious east, sometimes as an agent of the East India Company. She left no letters, and few writings to provide a fuller picture of her background and her experiences, unfortunately, but many others did. These doughty women looking for adventure, curious about the world around them faced hardships and dangers modern women can hardly imagine.

By coincidence my husband recently presented me with a book about women adventurers: The Blessings of a Good Thick Skirt -- Women Travellers and their World by Mary Russell, and it's an intriguing read, beginning in the year 383 when a Roman woman by the name of Egeria travelled on her own to Jerusalem and left a stunningly complete description of all that she saw around her, giving later historians the opportunity to piece together what life was like in the Holy Land at that time, with a focus, of course, since she was a Christian pilgrim, on Christianity.

The book lingers on the well established pilgrim routes through the Middle East by the eighth century, and the growing numbers of women who decided to test their piety by exposing themselves to privation, danger and the fascination of witnessing an entirely alien landscape and the people inhabiting it.

"By the eighteenth century, a steady wave of women travellers was regularly leaving England's shores, some to accompany their husbands on diplomatic missions and some to participate with them in that great cultural institution -- the Grand Tour", wrote the author.

Hester Stanhope, the daughter of an aristocratic family, her grandfather Pitt the Elder, first Earl of Chatham, her uncle was William Pitt, Prime Minister at the time, for whom she spent many years acting as his official hostess. When he died in 1806 she left Britain to travel to the Middle East, and settled in Syria, where she spent the rest of her days, to the consternation and condemnation of the British, for no self-respecting British lady would comport herself in such a manner.

"In Victorian times, bemused and bewildered, women found themselves plucked from the blood and sweat of childbirth and placed high upon the pedestal of perfection -- the Angel of the Drawing-Room presiding over her own prison. Marriage, however, was not the destiny of every woman, nor was every woman prepared to be held within this domestic cage, and no book about women travellers would be complete without reference to the hand of women who in those days set out with courage and conviction to present their foreign god [through mission work] to the unsuspecting peoples of Africa and China." 

Missionary work was the only approved reason for women to travel abroad; natural curiosity and a bid to know the world, its various cultures and the people practising them was definitely not the those with refined sensibilities. Except that, in many instances, it was precisely that. Women began to break down the barriers of professions and set out not only to travel, but to take up work in professions that society frowned upon and sought to deny them; this, before the age of strident feminism. At the same time when early flight became a reality women flirted with that as well, many obtaining their flight licenses and setting out solo to fly great distances, just as they also manned seacraft for the same purpose; to prove their mettle to themselves.

Fast forward through the centuries to the modern era in rural India, where tribal Nat people living in their villages are accustomed, though living in poverty, to a woman remaining at home, while the husband goes out to work. In the past five years the market for flash-frozen buffalo meat was popularized in Saudi Arabia, Egypt and China, and India became the world's largest meat exporter. The women in the little village travelled to an adjoining village, Meerat, to find employment; they began to earn, through their hard physical labour, up to five times what their husbands brought home.

For some women it meant a relief from being beaten by their husbands and their mothers-in-law, because respect came with their earnings. But the village chief was offended, and considered the working women to have dishonoured tribal custom. They were warned repeatedly to stop working, but the handful of women who worked at the factories simply ignored the warnings. Until they were ostracized, a penalty worse than death in these societies, and subjected to beatings.

The story appeared in The New York Times: "See, in our community, a woman is a woman and a man is a man" explained the chief.

Snow began again yesterday evening, and before we went up to bed for the night my husband went out to distribute fresh seeds and nuts in the large rectangular box feeder standing below the two bird feeders on a pole which didn't need refurbishing. He got up again this morning well before dawn, intending to shovel out the walkways in the back garden so that Jackie and Jillie wouldn't have to flounder through the snow first thing when they went out.

He paused as usual to look out the glassed front door and there, peering through the darkness he saw the same sight that had greeted him the morning before. The rectangular feeding trough was teeming with doves, about twenty in all, seated within and pecking to their hearts' content. The squirrels arrived later, after the doves had departed, as my husband noted on his return trip once he had finished shovelling the snow in back.

It was a mental challenge to get out there this morning, one I would have lost, but not my husband. The temperature had risen slightly from its overnight dip to minus 16 degrees, cold enough, but made incredibly biting cold by a brisk wind that drove icicle daggers of cold wherever it penetrated. We have enjoyed a week of relatively mild weather, in line with what climatologists predicted for this winter, given the el Nino effect, stronger this year than most, of blocking the Arctic air mass that usually drifts over wintry Canada.

So with highs of minus 6 degrees -- and of course that intolerable wind -- we also had both minor snowfalls of exquisite beauty, and ample sun, alternately. Usually mild enough so we could dispense with boots for our little Poodles. In the last few days they've needed those boots, and that was because when it's cold enough and there's fresh snow down, icy cold penetrates their tiny paws. With the boots they're able to cavort and disport themselves to their hearts' content, and they do, giving us ample reason to chortle with laughter, watching their antics. As they race along the trail, we can even hear their booted feet pounding, just as though they were miniature horses.

It was so penetratingly cold this morning we figured they might be in need of some protection first thing in the morning, so on went their little sweaters before they ventured out. We're doing some anthropomorphizing there, to be certain. When they come back into the house, they frantically swarm, and leap about everywhere, revelling in the warmth of the interior. But by no means are they loathe to face the outside with its burden of cold and snow; it's simply another attractive alternative for them.

Its the birds we feel pity for, having to cope with these difficult conditions. We've noted lately new visitors, House Finches, small birds with pink on their backs and chests and heads, very attractive, originally native to the mountains of British Columbia which have gradually made their way to our geography. They, like cardinals which decades ago would never be seen in an Ottawa winter, now appear regularly at area bird feeders.

I had read a local restaurant review in last weekend's newspaper, and in the article a mention was made that an item called Turkish pizza was on the menu. It went on to explain that an enquiry elicited the information that it was really pide, a Turkish dish that seemed like a regional take on traditional Italian pizza. It gave the pide high marks, and I was curious so I looked up recipes online and found quite a few, some simple some more complex. I thought I'd give it a try myself.

So yesterday that's just what I did. The traditional pide is kind of boat-shaped, with a cooked mixture of onion, spices and browned beef heaped onto the dough, then baked at a high temperature until browned. I looked over quite a few recipes and finally settled on one at the allrecipes.com site labelled Lahmacun Turkish Pizza. I found it intriguing for the sauce they recommend and the dressing, so I thought why not?

I had earlier prepared pizza dough, an easy enough recipe with just yeast, (tiny bit of sugar to help it rise), salt, water, flour and a spare drizzle of olive oil. In the afternoon I chopped up the green and red peppers, tomato and cumin, olive oil, lemon, paprika, basil, onion and garlic into a fine slurry with my tiny processor meant just for such little kitchen jobs. Then I did the simple dressing which was just a cup of plain yoghurt mixed with a crushed clove of garlic and parsley.

At dinner time, I rolled out four rounds of dough, shaping them into rough boat-shapes and let them sit on a fine cornmeal-dusted baking pan while I stirred a quarter-pound of minced beef in a frypan with virgin olive oil until it was completely browned, then added the processed vegetables along with tomato paste, mixed it all together and dumped the result onto the waiting 'boats'.

I popped the finished product into a hot oven and they were nicely browned by the time we finished our fresh garden salad. I had added a small strip of Provolone cheese when they were almost fully baked. The little filled boats were different, and quite pleasant. Both of us really liked the way the crust itself turned out; crisp and chewy and flavourful. We liked the melange of flavours, but felt we could dispense with the beef in perhaps another incarnation, focusing instead on the vegetables, and perhaps a mixture of cheeses.

Cut-up mangoes and strawberries put the cap on dinner quite nicely.

In the mountains where our younger son skis, the ice is three metres thick. Conditions were excellent for skiing last Wednesday when he was out on Mount Seymour, he said, a really lovely, crisp and sunny day and the snow conditions were beyond criticism. Yesterday he wore his drysuit and took his kayak out again at Wreck Beach, where he said the ocean was choppy but nowhere near as much so as it had been a week earlier. Harbour seals are scarce now, but they'll soon be returning, to pop up around his kayak, wondering what's going on.

It's quite a different story here. In Ottawa, it's been a challenge to prepare the Rideau Canal for its annual winter skating conditions, and this will likely turn out to be the worst year for skating on the canal, given our El Nino winter having brought milder winter conditions.

We can't recall when last the snowpack in the ravine has been so low. On only one previous occasion can we remember a December without snow, as occurred this winter. The good thing about this milder winter, is where minus-6 C for the high of the day has allowed us to get out with Jackie and Jillie without having to pull their winter boots on for protection against the cold. Any colder than that and their tiny paws freeze up.

We've had a spate of contradictory weather conditions, mild days following icy and windy cold ones, so that a thaw-and-freeze cycle has set in. When my husband took the household waste out to the curb last night for this morning's pick-up, the street lamps shed their light on the surrounding lawns with their untouched blanket of snow. The snow lawns are completely covered in a layer of ice, the light glinting off the ice quite exquisitely.

When we're in the ravine and the afternoon sun slants brilliantly onto the forest floor, there is a vast icefield where normally a puffed-snow blanket would be. When Jackie ventures off the trampled trail of hard-packed snow, he slides and slithers everywhere. Our concern is that if he does that when we're up on one of the colls between valleys, he'll just slip down completely and then be confused when he discovers himself to have slid far from where we happen to be, up above.

Because of the prevailing ice underfoot, it takes a foolhardy soul to venture into the ravine without a good pair of hefty cleats strapped securely over winter boots. The result has been that we don't see many people out and about in the ravine of late. We haven't had a good, hefty snowfall in weeks, only desultory light snow drifts down from time to time.

No complaints, however, merely observing.

He is a man whose good news is always tempered with bad news. For him, there never seems to be a complete and final interruption to his literal peace of mind, let alone figural. We came across him as we so often do during one of our regular ravine walks a few days back, out with his three Border Collies. He is a man whose entire life has been devoted to challenging his body's physical endurance, given to extreme recreational sports, a man of a highly charged nervous disposition. And he was a man whose choice of professional work as a highly-trained taskforce police agent seemed well chosen to his temperament and ability.

That profession is now closed to him, left partially disabled by a medical condition diagnosed a year earlier. A diagnosis that explained his memory-loss lapses, dizziness, headaches and other symptoms that left him confused and unable to cope with the stringencies of his occupation, let alone his penchant for extreme physical activities. His condition led him to an accident where his collar bone was cracked. That led to an operation to affix a steel plate on his shoulder. That plate was recently removed and the pain he had experienced from that source entirely relieved.

The other operation, to install a shunt from the base of his brain, with a hollow line going down through his body to be attached to a bag to catch the drain from his brain on a continual basis gave him great relief from all those symptoms. But the disabling headaches, aversion to light and to sound returned and each time an invasive action had to be taken to recalibrate the shunt. Until finally, another surgery ensued to replace the shunt with another model capable of finer calibration. Which worked fine briefly before the return of the headaches. On the occasion when we last met, another fine adjustment had been done, and he and his wife were anticipating a several-week excursion to Hawaii, to try to escape from all the stress they'd been suffering.

On their return another surgery has been scheduled, this time to adjust the line carrying the accumulating fluid away from his brain. Turns out the surgeon who had attached the drain to his stomach wall hadn't calculated adequately, and its placement has resulted in a hernia requiring the drain to be re-located. 

One of these stories of personal health woes that makes most ordinary far more common health events look tame in comparison.

They chase and race one another around the house. We can always tell when a mad dash is about to be initiated if we're not right there where they are, witnessing them crouching-off against one another, one at one end of the room, the other at the opposite, in position, daring one another to begin the chase. If we're not there to witness the run-off, we can hear the challenging little barks that reflect one or the other initiating the ritual.

And off they go, their little paws thudding against the floor, the carpeting, up stairs, down stairs, all around the house. When we're downstairs and they're on the upper floor we know exactly where they are from the thumping rush of their skinny little legs. It's amazing how sound carries. It's astonishing that little creatures like that can, with the sheer momentum of their mad dashes raise a gallop that can sound like a miniature herd of elephants dashing about.

And it's amusing to witness their antics; brief intermissions where the dashes turn into face-to-face, paw-to-paw wrestling, each upright on hind legs, pummelling one another in a bid for primacy, where neither is prepared to give way, though Jillie has the advantage in weight and Jackie the slighter advantage in height, and perhaps even gender.

When things really get frantic he leaps with incredible grace and blink-eyed lightning-swiftness onto the sofa, the back of the sofa, down again in one fluid swoop while she, with no faith in her leaping capacity, leaps at the edge of the sofa in frustrated puzzlement. And in reverse, once they're both at ground level again, she will duck under the large coffee table in the family room, and dart out repeatedly to its edges, daring him to join her  underneath the table, and he never will, instead snapping at her each time she darts out, until they both make a final dash and suddenly surrender themselves to exhaustion.

At which point, it's time to look for any handy chewies, strips of rawhide, the favourites of which are those washed with chicken flavouring. Occasionally they'll tackle their antler horns, but they're not favourites. He will retire with a special treat, a hard-twisted rope of rawhide, in one of their little beds, while she hauls hers under the coffee table, each seeking the isolation from the other that permits them the challenge-free leisure to pursuit their chewing frenzy uninterrupted.