Today - or, rather, yesterday's walk. A rather dull one, close to home, on an overcast and generally miserable day, with that depressing fag-end of winter feel. Unremitting gloom, mud and awfulness, really, but I suppose on some level (as yet unclear to me) it will have done me good.
The paths had thawed sufficiently to leave a horridly unpleasant and slimy surface layer of mud over deeper layers of hard-packed and still frozen ground. As I plodded round the loch I kept thinking of prehistoric swamps, the Somme, and Zola's Germinal, which I remember as being one of the gloomiest books ever, almost on a par with 1984. Mud, black bread and coalmines are all that come to mind when I think of it.
Not the nicest of walks, and not much wildlife to mention, except for two noisy buzzards, a flock of gulls following a plough, a few quiet swans close in by the reed beds, some mallards, and a couple of goldeneye.
I know I should be thankful for my health, at my age, and so I am.