I realised, as I walked along the side of the stream that I don’t know anything about icicles. If I thought about them at all I saw icicles as long dagger shaped things that hang prettily above your head, made from melting water freezing. Hanging off the roof of an alpine chalet or something. It’s never cold enough here to have them for more than a day at most. Until now. And to my great surprise I find that each leaf and tiny stem bobbing in the current of the stream is being covered in thin layer after thin layer of ice. Building up what looks likes a bottle. Rather like a potter builds up a pot on their wheel. The black stream was decorated with millions of glinting, glittering and growing bottles. All slightly different, some joined together, some enormous, some lopsided, some top heavy, some bulging in the middle. And not a dagger shape to be seen.