Being a forward-thinking type I had already thought about our return and in a burst of ultra-preparedness I packed a thermal vest and a long-sleeved top, and shortly after landing at Heathrow I put lots of clothes on top of the ones I was already wearing and was nice and warm without a sensible coat. It's true what they say about layers...
Anyway, the coach trundled through the dark eastern countryside and by Stansted there was frost and snow on the rooves of the cars in the car-parks.
By the time we got home it was pretty deep, for Norwich, in November. And by the start of the week We were pretty much in the realm of walking-boots-at-work, wild rumours about how much more snow was forecast and a certain level of light giggling. I don't know why snow+work=mild hysteria, but it does. In grown women anyway. Or is that just me?
I am reminded of my teens in Hebden Bridge where snow was guaranteed and would go on for months. Literally. I remember snow on my mother's birthday - in April.
I remember slushy, grey pavements, the hissing of damp coal, the damp miasma of drying laundry, the stamping to get snow off boots and shoes, the way said boots never quite dried out, the clammy feel of still-wet gloves and the rise of the snow-covered hills above the town, white slope and white crag merging into white cloud.
And for a short while it's 1979 and school runners are dashing from classroom to classroom making the all important announcements:
"If you live at X place, you can go" from the tops down through the settlements - Jack Bridge, Slack, Colden, Blackshaw Head, Heptonstall - and on the other side of the valley - Duck Hill, Dean Clough, Old Town.
We would get fed-up of the slush, sure, but of snow? Never. I've never tired of snow. And this week has reminded me how much I love and miss it.