A sharp westerly wind ...

 ...  freezes my cheeks and my fingers protruding from my fingerless gloves as I walk Bertie along the green strip at the edge of Monsieur F's field. The ditch beside us is full of muddy gurgling water that is pouring into the stream at the bottom.  My wellington boots slosh through the shallow lake that has reappeared following last night's rain. I let Bertie off his lead. He has his nose firmly pressed into a grass tussock and I leave him there, reassured that he hasn't noticed or smelt the two deer that bounded away across Phillipe's field when they saw us emerge from the house.

The morning is peaceful - the end of February is the end of the hunt season and this is the last weekend the guns can be out. It's due to rain solidly tomorrow; perhaps the hunters will stay at home. I send up a silent prayer for the deer.

Despite the cold, the wind brings a promise of spring. Later in the day, high above me, I hear the cranes calling. They are heading east and north for the summer.