They are children of the snow. You could almost say they fell to earth on the backs of snowflakes. Wintershome belong as intimately to winter as a fisherman does to his trawler. Winter. The season is inextricably bound up with Wintershome. It gave birth to them and now gives them refuge, inspiration and nourishment. Hear them talk about a glacier, the Gornergrat near Zermatt where they come from, and you'll understand. It features on cover of the 1st album, the obvious choice. The glacier represents the love and the mystery that they demand when combining lyrics with melody. A glacier is a moving, living thing; it has a history, it takes away and then gives again, a long time later, while we teeter on the edge of oblivion. In the presence of the glacier, Wintershome are inspired by Nature in her indomitable beauty. In its presence, the group live time as incompressible, their music an ode to the joys and sorrows of the human soul. They are not a group, nor simply a bunch of youngsters. Their relationship is much more subtle than that. There is something of the clan about them. They are a siblinghood, come down from the mountains to speak to us about Nature, to lift us out of the bleakness of the world with voices that shine like the sun's rays glinting off a mountain brook. They have known each other since their first halting steps on skis. Now, they are musicians who like to ski. Now, they have answered the call, the urge they have to congregate in the little house they have chosen as their place to create, refine, re-tune and bat musical ideas around to see how they grow. This is their lair, their den, their burrow. This is Wintershome. And there is no poacher alive who can flush them out. Because when the impulse to write comes on them, the atmosphere turns to one of sublime reverence, like when on foggy days the Matterhorn suddenly shrugs off his misty mantle, a giant waking from his bed of clouds. Ever since they were children, an air of soft melody has hung about them. Music has always surrounded them, just as mountains, forests and snow have always been a part of their lives. Music itself is their visiting muse, coming and going with perpetual regularity like the winter snows. They are not conquistadors of Nature; they respect her and are fascinated by her, allowing her to come to them with her retinue of sights, sounds and smells. Wintershome is a house where everyone, from the cellar to the attic, contributes their part, drawn from the rude bounty of Nature. It is a workshop of artisans, a place where one person feels the weight of another's pebble to assess how well it will skim, where one person blows on another’s dried leaf to see how lightly it flutters through the air, and where another person contemplates the branches brought from an earthly epic to judge the rhythm of their rattle. And they take all this and simmer it in the pot bubbling on the family hearth to create their songs, a blend of sadness, intensity, beauty and hope. And each time, the crowd go home with a little hoard of bright, airy melodies filling their heads like a dose of dewdrops gathered at dawn on a summer's day. Wintershome were born of the snow. And through them, winter has become a season of warmth and light.