A Few Feet of Snow

It was the footprint that did it. Not that there weren't many footprints in the snow - there were: boots, shoes, dogs' paws; but this footprint on the pavement was different. It was just that: the imprint of a naked foot. In the snow.

My attention had already been attracted by the multitude of wildlife imprints in the white stuff back in the garden - the three-toed bamboo-like footprints of the coots from the river, smaller birds' prints, and a curious collection of tiny paw shapes that were either from a rat, a vole, or our garden equivalent of a mini-Yeti. Oh, and two tiny tiny boot prints from, presumably, a garden gnome which had set off through Storm Emma from somewhere else in the neighbourhood.

But this naked footprint down the road had me stumped. It wasn't alone - there was clear evidence that whoever it belonged to did actually have two feet, both unshod, and had gone for a stroll through the snow recently, despite the temperature being minus two.

They could of course have been from someone out for a jog wearing barefoot trainers. I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I think I can safely deduce that these imprints weren't made by someone running. There were no scuff marks, no signs of quickened pace or intense motion. These, my dear Watson, were made by someone not in a hurry, not escaping a crime scene, nor desperate for a fag and determinedly striding to the local shop. These footprints were made (pauses for dramatic effect) by someone... out for a stroll.

Which begs the question, why wear barefoot trainers? Why not actual trainers, or better still, boots with thick woolen socks? No, I am convinced these were made by actual naked feet. Maybe in Sunbury-on-Thames there is a Sunbury equivalent of the fire walkers, whose membership aims to withstand the excruciating pain of, not fire, but ice and snow. These footprints could signal a rite of passage by some local youth, who is one day destined to become the tribal leader. Running Bear. Or in this case maybe Walking Bare.

Which brings me to another hypothesis: that the footprints were made by a local naturist, possibly of Scandiwegian heritage, immune to snow and freezing temperatures and keen to show defiance (among other bits) to Mother Nature, and the rest of the general neighbourhood.

Only once have I ever gone barefoot in snow, and that was after leaping out of a 39-degree Celsius hot tub to take a couple of photos. For the few seconds I was out - starkers I might add, apologies to the neighbours (again) - it was actually invigorating, enjoyable, though getting back into the tub was doubly exhilarating.

Three feet of snow

These footprints however were on a pavement, alongside the Thames, with houses bordering the other side of the road. They suggested a stroll of some distance, so whoever they belonged to must have been well hard. (Unlike me out of the hot tub, as my wife pointed out).

My main worry was that they belonged to some poor soul with Alzheimer's who had forgotten to get dressed to go down to the shop. That would be extremely sad. Or that they were the footprints of a sleepwalker, oblivious to the freezing cold, who woke up this morning wondering why there was snow on the carpet beside their bed, and why their toes had turned black from frostbite.

Anyway, due to ongoing snow flurries and Storm Emma, the prints weren't easy to follow and didn't lead anywhere conclusive. Nor could I backtrack them to their origin, so I am left bewildered. Still, it's brought a whole new dimension to Snowmaggedon and The Beast from the East. 

And as Sherlock himself might observe, 'The game's afoot!'