I can tell it has snowed by the deathly silence on the M62 farm - Jill Thorp

The New Year came in like a steam train. Howling wind, plenty of rain but not quite enough cold air or frost to do any good.

There are few things that can really drag an animal down quite like endless rain. The cold isn’t so much of a problem for them, but the wet is. We’d checked round everything on New Year’s Eve.

My Welsh Mountain ponies had made their way down off the hill and were keeping close to the shelter of a small copse of trees.

Next door, the Herdwick ewes, sensing that bad weather was on its way, were under a wall, awaiting the onslaught of yet another storm.

And then the first snow of the year came, bringing with it the usual motorway chaos. Our workload doubles overnight as the farm lies frozen under a heavy blanket of snow, leaving endless hungry mouths to feed out on the hill.

The deathly quiet, echoing silently around the old stone walls of our home, is usually enough to tell me that snow has fallen, halting the motorway.

Those brave or desperate enough to attempt the perilous journey past our farm and up to the high point where Yorkshire butts up against Lancashire, often rue their decision and are left stranded.

A biting wind from the east greeted us as we begrudgingly left the warmth of the kitchen, thermals, waterproofs and thick gloves donned.

The little guy insisted he didn’t need a hat or gloves, until the first icy blast and huge fluffy snowflakes hit his warm cheeks.

With bobble hat and new gloves on, he joined me as we headed out on the quad bike into the blizzard, loaded with hay and feed, watching as a snowplough tore a path through the covered carriageway.

The Leicester gimmer lambs were huddled tightly in the corner of their barn, avoiding the large patch of snow that had blown in during the night, covering their straw bed.

They greeted us eagerly, knocking the bag of feed from the little guy’s hand.

The Mountain ponies were faring well, their dense coats and long thick manes providing a barrier against the worst of the weather, steadily working their way through a round bale of hay.

It didn’t take long before a perfectly moulded ball of snow was flung in my direction amidst great shrieks of excitement.

The giddy thrill of a snow-covered wonderland proved too much and the little guy disappeared into a huge, pristine snow drift, his laughter quickly whisked away in the freezing flurries.

With everything fed, we headed back to the yard, his cheeks glowing, eyes wide with joy, whilst the remnant of an icy snowball found its way down my back.