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THERE ARE FEW BIRDS in the wood, along the lane or in the park. Despite the sun, hoar frost has lingered at the edge of the wood. In a rut, ice has crystallised in the shape of an aircraft.
Almost all the birdlife we see is concentrated around the canal. The warmth of the water, and, perhaps, the south-facing aspect have kept most of the frost at bay. But above the lock a thin sheet of ice has started to form. There are Robins, Wrens, Blackbirds, Mistle Thrushes, Crow, Long-tailed Tits and a Kestrel hunting. But no Kingfisher, no Fieldfares or Redwings.
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Two King Alfred's Cakes fungi give a hedgerow Ash the anxious expression of a Star Wars robot. A cut-off Elder stump is so luxuriously covered with bright green moss that it is furry to the touch. In a whimsical way it resembles a reclining stag. (It think that's enough objets trouves for one day!)
A couple of guns are out in the fields. I peer over the parapet of a bridge and in the cover of the old railway cutting see a fine cock Pheasant. He looks back at me, but stays where he is, looking distinctly uncomfortable.