Warm in the sun, with a strong cold wind from the south.
Many signs of early spring in the last few days. Earlier in the week, a Chiffchaff offered a few weak chiffs and chaffs beside the Shire House. Primroses out beside the allotments, perpetual Skylark song along Firle Bostal.
Today, most small birds had their heads down. Unseen Long-tailed Tits whispering on the way up the hill, and Goldcrest.
A Green Woodpecker cried loudly from the escarpment, where the sun’s now high enough at 10am to warm the walk right down to the bottom.
Partridges’ mechanical noises down the Bostal. At New Elms pond, two drake Mallard loafing and a Moorhen prospecting again.
An hour on the beach at Holywell, sheltering in the lee of a groyne.
As we skimmed stones and picked out treasure from the strandline, a Rock Pipit nipped around and a few Kittiwakes passed offshore.
Bitterly cold, fine skies.
Seven Fieldfares over the Old Coach Road.
Open the door the show 3YO the gently falling snow.
“Do you know what that is?”
“Is it milk?”
A frost under milky skies, not cold enough for snow.
Dull and damp. A party of seven Blue Tits feed where the ground is cleared, under the young ash and hawthorn beside the school field.
Hundreds of Woodpigeons burst from the game cover, among them a very few Stock Doves.
Goldcrests on the escarpment, in the plantation and along the track. After two mild winters they abound.
Little sound, but one or two thrushes and crow calls carry far in the wet air.
The path through the plantation runs wet too, in places washed to chalk pavement. In the grey of the winter, under the hanger of ash, the bare pale chalk and the green bright mosses appear lurid.
By the track down to the Coach Road from the Beacon, the powerful boughs of beech are exposed, growing parallel to the ground, muscular but forced northeastwards even so.
Puddles where there are never puddles.
A Blackbird caught in the torchlight along the Old Coach Road.
Starlings fleeing their roost two doors up.