It was a cold, stark day. The sky was no more than altering shades of white and grey, no hint of the sun. Although not as cold as it had been a few weeks earlier, the sombre mood made me shiver and pull up the collar of my rain jacket.

The dog barely seemed to notice, she just trotted alongside me with her usual jaunty step, just glad to once again be out of the house. She always looked happy when she was outdoors.

We made our way along the foot path, through the underpass and on towards the marsh beyond.

There was a stream that ran through the reedbeds. It passed under a small foot bridge and gurgled its way further down towards the road. I stood for a while, watching the tumbling waves as they criss-crossed each other. The water is clear in summer and you can see the rocks and mud on the bottom of the ditch. But now, with the recent rains and wind, the water had become murky brown and I couldn’t make out anything beyond the surface.

Finally I raised my eyes from the mesmerising water and looked up over towards the reed beds. There was a stillness about the place today and I realised I had not heard a single bird since I stopped. The dog was waiting patiently for me to move on. I obliged.

Heading through the broken fence we arrived at the tree which grew on the edge of the stream.

It was old and mishapen. Several of the branches had been lost to the weather in prior years. But it was a good brace to lean my back on when trying to manipulate either binoculars or camera.  Today I had bought binoculars, the cold air would have raised the risk of camera shake and the need to remove gloves did not appeal either.

I waited for some time, the air gently swayed the heads of the bullrushes. The sound, like a sighing breath, reached my ears and I closed my eyes and let it envelop me. As I closed my eyes and focused on the sound the cold seemed to fall away slightly. I opened my eyes and took in the scene – the milky white and the pale green of the winter reed bed. The light shimmering on the surface of the water. I was so engrossed that the sound of mallard shook me with a jolt. My head swung round at the sound, just in time to see the culpret dodge behind a clump of dense grass on the edge of the water.

Finally I pushed my back away from the trunk of the tree and made my way around the back of the reed beds to get a better view. After a while I could make out the slow, stealthy movements of a moorhen, gently making its way in and out of the tall rushes. Its head dipping up and down as it plucked small morsels of food from the water, I wondered what it was eating at this time of year. The seeds from the autumn were likely all eaten by now, and the temperature didn’t seem conducive to insects being out and about. I assumed the mud would offer some warmth for the bugs to allow them to survive.

Finally there was bird song – a robin had arrived in the branches of the tree I had been leaning on earlier. As if announcing the onset of spring he sang with a melodious string that seemed to dance through the air. The cadence rose and fell, and I watched as he stetched his head toward the unforgiving sky and showed off his red breast with pride. He seemed a robust little fellow, he certainly gave the impression he’d had little trouble finding food through the Winter. His feathers were all primed, the brown on his back and the silver edging to his red waistecoat all spoke well of his condition. He was certainly a catch for any female that should happen by or be drawn by the strength of his song.

It was some time after when the great tits arrived. Three in all. At a guess I would have to say two males, each trying to impress the girl. They had made their way from the far side of the field via the upper most branches of the trees. Each of the males making their way by flying slightly beyond the other, like some impromptu game, then raising their voice to seranade the object of their attention. She, on the other hand, seemed to be paying little attention to either. She simply flitted between them, searching the branches for some poor, unsuspecting bug on which to feed. These three were also in fine breeding plumage. The black shiny, the yellow bright and bold in its contrast. I watched their game for some while, until finally, having come all the way past the edge of the river, they headed back toward the copse at the far edge of the reed beds.

The robin too had moved on by then and the moorhen had managed to hide herself back among the reeds. All was quiet again. The dog had snuffled and explored all along the edge of the stream, and around the edges of the reed bed. Her feet betrayed where she had gone just a little too far into the mud. Now she had flopped down by feet and lay, tongue lolling,, waiting for me to finish my  survey of the area. She looked up at me as I dropped my arms and let my binoculars fall away from my eyes. Looking down I marvelled at her patience.

Moving away from the reed beds we made out way back along the hedgerow towards the copse. I was hoping that, within the warmth of the tree, I might fare better. I heard the trill of a blackbird as we passed, he dodged into a tangle of hawthorne that made up part of the hedgerow and disappeared from sight. As we came close to the copse I could hear a chorus of songs. All together they were difficult to identify, but as I listend I began to make out some of the individual phrases and recognise a familiar refrain or two.

The Great tits were there, as were a couple of blue tits. A small flock of long tailed tits adorned the upper branches of the alder trees, and there were a couple of robins up there too. The blackbirds and thrushes were conspicuous by their abscence – as they had most been most of the winter. But somewhere, way beyond the trees came the high pitched call of a buzzard.

Further in, where the light became dimmer, the temperature rose slightly. The wind stirred restlessly through the branches and it’s sighs and rustles seem to come from all directions. The gentle cooing of the wood pigeons and the collard doves had a palliative effect as I walked through the woods. The soft earth beneath my feet made no further sound and I became lost in that strange twilight world full of half light and silhouetted trees.

All too soon I came out into the harsh grey light and the sting of the temperature shocked me from my reverie. We headed back down the path to where we had entered, the dog trotting along beside me once again. Passing through the woods she had headed off the track and into the shrubs. Snuffling through the leaves and investigating the myriad of smells and trails that crossed through the undergrowth. But now her attention was focused ahead of her, as if her thoughts had turned to the warmth and comfort of home which awaited her at the end of this final part of our journey.