After several days self imposed incarceration, I woke this morning to thick icy fog - enchanting and too tempting to resist. Crossing the fields into a dense whiteness I headed for the top farm, marveling at the fairyland effects of a thick hoar frost.
Bitter woodsmoke mingled with the icy freshness of the mist as I neared the shrouded buildings, where lambing ewes moaned and droned from the warm safety of a barn. Finches, tits and chaffinches were threading nimbly through the sparse hedgerow, their dainty flight interrupted by fat, fuss-bustling blackbirds. A fragile white sun tried in vain to break through the pearlescent opacity as I passed scattered cottages, tempting smells of bacon drifting across my path.
Turning back to the village, a sad sight for a winter morning...a young badger, dead in a ditch. They are often found in this stretch of road, their instinct for a time hallowed crossing spot not tempered by the arrival of man's swift killing machines. But life surges relentlessly on, and already tender new leaves of honeysuckle are creeping through lichen crusted hawthorn twigs, despite the intense cold we have had recently. Church bells tumble from a nearby church as I pick up my Sunday Times and head home to eggs, toast and the inevitable pot of tea.
Bitter woodsmoke mingled with the icy freshness of the mist as I neared the shrouded buildings, where lambing ewes moaned and droned from the warm safety of a barn. Finches, tits and chaffinches were threading nimbly through the sparse hedgerow, their dainty flight interrupted by fat, fuss-bustling blackbirds. A fragile white sun tried in vain to break through the pearlescent opacity as I passed scattered cottages, tempting smells of bacon drifting across my path.
Turning back to the village, a sad sight for a winter morning...a young badger, dead in a ditch. They are often found in this stretch of road, their instinct for a time hallowed crossing spot not tempered by the arrival of man's swift killing machines. But life surges relentlessly on, and already tender new leaves of honeysuckle are creeping through lichen crusted hawthorn twigs, despite the intense cold we have had recently. Church bells tumble from a nearby church as I pick up my Sunday Times and head home to eggs, toast and the inevitable pot of tea.
