He left around six, was there around six-thirty, hacked out the hole by seven-fifteen, flung off his clothes with quick, exaggerated movements, rubbed himself down with snow, jumped in the hole, began to shout, and at times could be heard singing: ‘Wild geese are flying through the night’ or ‘Oh, how we love the storm…’, he sang, bathed, shouted for two or at most three minutes, then with a single leap he stood terrifyingly distinct on the surface of the ice: a mass of steaming crab-red flesh racing round the hole, still shouting, still glowing, then back in his clothes at last and onto the bike.