The morning had started with the smallest hint of sunshire, in a sky which was a whiter shade of grey to the one which persisted through the rest of the day. Inspired by that tiny glimpse of sun peaking out from behind the cloud I decided to take a chance and head out.

The air temperature was strikingly cold, despite the assurance of the weatherman that was to be no frost through the night. I thrust my hands deep into my pockets to try to protect them. The dog, as ever, trotted along seemingly oblivious of any such discomfort. I redirected my attention to the sounds of the birds coming from all around me. The Robin, the easiest to identify, was less easy to spot. Partially obscured by the dense thicket I finally spotted the familiar red breast, brown coat and silver waistcoat. Moving on, I then singled out the familiar notes of a Blackbird. Easier by far to spot, high up in the top branches. Through binoculars I could make out the early buds which had yet to break open. In the garden the Elder tree had already started to unfurl tiny green leaves, but here in the upper most branches the cold air kept the buds closed tight.

Making our way down the path, taking in the songs of the Wrens, the Blue tits and the Great tits as we went, I was saddend to note that the celandines had not made an appearence here yet. In the garden they shone like brilliant yellow stars and their heart shaped mottled green and white leaves really created a sense that spring was well underway. But here the verges were devoid of all but the remants of last years grasses and bare soil beneath the hedges. I decided to head to the edge of the woods, down by the bog in the hope that the sun may well have enticed some of the spring flowers out there.