The Silver Birches along the top of the slope look good, even with bare branches, against the weak winter sun. The colours of bark and dry bracken are muted, like the naturally dyed colours of traditional Harris Tweed.
It's good to be in a natural space again, not hemmed in by traffic and buildings but hemmed in by ranks of trees. In fact rather than making me feel enclosed the verticals of the trees give a sense of spaciousness, defining the space around me as I stride along the path.
There are just a few accents of colour; Honey Fungus on a log and the buds on a Hazel by the stream are grey, yes, but with a hint of lilac.
Really there's not much going on in the wood today, but that's the attraction of it. It's good to hear the scrunch of dried oak and sycamore leaves beneath my feet again and the babbling of the brook (I know that's a cliché, but that's just what it is doing today). There's one bend on the stream where a log has fallen across the flow and now forms a small dam. Clear water rushing over it produces the sort of rhythmic sound that gardeners aim at in Japanese water features.
Against the gentle ambient sound there's the 'squeaky bicycle pump' song of the Great Tit and, at the edge of the wood, the explosive 'grockle!' of a cock Pheasant.