After the storm, the sun comes shining through, casting bright light on a sodden landscape.
Legs pick their way through mud, slurping as if stuck in cartoon glue, stomping and pulling on elastic. In a hollow over the hill, cattle low and bay like motorbikes on a scramble.
This morning, a thick frost covers the grass, making it feel spongy-hard, underfoot. The sun climbs up from the east and, as it throws its light against the ridge, projects a line halfway up bare trees and then I see myself in shadow, like Peter Pan, walking through the branches.
The view from here is good.
In the village square, the visibility mirror is just about useless, frosted up, fogged up and disconnected from its outlook on everyday life.
The weather forecasters say we are in for a chilly weekend. There could be even be snow. What fun. Racing down the hill, where I just walked, disembodied, through the trees, on sledges and fertiliser sacks. Can’t wait.