decriptive narrative
looked past the small, crumpled, grubby piece of paper clasped in my mittened hand, to stare at the grey-white over-blanket of snow that had silently descended in the few short moments I had been standing here. I shivered. A few more white flakes, wafted down in front of me, like a scattering of confetti, adhering lightly to my eyelashes and brows, I pulled my hat back up over my head. I glanced up at the building that served to remind me how far I was from home. It was an old English Tudor style house, pretty typical for the area I was now entering. A box-hedge that served as a front fence, the light dustings of snow covering the whole scene reminiscent of picturesque postcard. Thoughts of my family down at Port Campbell in the summer sun of Christmas bought a pang of homesickness slicing at my heart. I gazed up at the name of the residence, carved into a piece of wood affixed to the front gate. ‘Chantey Cottage’ still visible under the misting of frost.