Strum-de-dum... I am learning chords that I never knew existed, and the names of chords that I thought i had made up myself. Wearing guitars like large necklaces, we wander round acknowledging each others' glazed nerd-expressions, talking about fingers, strings and necks, not sure where our bodies end and our guitars begin.
Inside, the hefty sofas absorb city stress and white crockery periodically appears next to coffee urns giving us all a timetable of caffeine regulation to punctuate our classes with Martin, Jim and Brian.
Outside, the gardens are white and the almost-black pines are festooned with snow.
The complex typography of bird-routes peppers the pathways in a spindly conversation between nature and need; the rabbits are below-ground and the fish are below-water. It is only the birds that show signs of life.
What a lovely thing to do, all year, always: three cheers for the Guitar Weekends!