What’s not to like about painting a quiet, sleepy spot like Cullybackey in the snow?

It was my first trip of the year — the first journey of January — and the snow softened everything it touched. Platforms, rooftops, hedgerows. Even sound seemed wrapped in cotton. The air was gentle, almost hesitant, as if the place itself was easing into the new year. 

It felt like the perfect place to begin again. 

I arrived with time to spare. That mattered. Knowing the journey was planned before I left home — the train checked, the timing settled — meant I could arrive unhurried, already present, already looking rather than watching the clock. Snow rewards that kind of attention. 

Cullybackey doesn’t ask much of you.
It offers space.
A slow start.
A pause between seasons. 

I set up near the platform edge where the landscape opened into fields glazed white. The colour surprised me, as it always does. Snow isn’t just white — it carries pale pink, soft blue, and lavender tones that drift and shift as the light changes. Those colours bring a quiet magic to any composition, especially on mornings like this, when the sky hasn’t quite made up its mind.

People stopped to talk — softly, as if the snow had set the volume for the day.

A man asked if the cold made painting harder. “It slows you down,” I said. “Which isn’t always a bad thing.” 

A couple heading into Portrush by train told me they loved winter journeys because “everything feels less demanding.” They wished me luck and walked on carefully, footprints filling slowly behind them. 

Later, I found myself chatting with chef Jenny Bristow at the station as we both waited for the Belfast bound train. We talked about painting and cooking — how both rely on patience, instinct, and knowing when to stop interfering. She spoke about winter food, about letting ingredients speak for themselves, about the comfort of simple flavours done well. 

I told her painting in snow felt the same.
Less decoration.
More listening. 

She laughed and said, “That’s exactly how I cook in January.” 

That conversation stayed with me — the idea that creativity across disciplines shares the same quiet rules. Whether you’re building flavour or building a painting, you’re responding to what’s in front of you, shaped by season, light, and mood. 

A robin hopped along the track edge, bold against the snow. Somewhere in the distance, a train sounded more like a thought than a noise. 

Painting here felt like listening. 

January journeys are different. People move more gently. Conversations linger but don’t demand. With the route already settled before I arrived, I could stay with the cold air on my face, the brief fog of breath, the slow warming of fingers around a mug. 

Cullybackey in the snow reminded me why I love starting the year with paint and travel intertwined. Not rushing. Not forcing. Just moving carefully from one place to another, letting the journey do some of the work for you. 

Some beginnings don’t need a grand gesture. 

They just need a quiet platform, a shared conversation, and enough space to notice colour returning to the world.