It’s been a trying and difficult few days for me, so the reappearance of a few crisp cold sunny winter’s days after so much wind and rain is a welcome boost to my mood.
Taking my morning walk the ground is still white and frosty where the deep shadows of trees cover the path, and stopping at the top of St Andrews Ridge I relished the view across the fields where the Groundwell Roman Villa once stood. It was here a sculpture complete with a dedication to the Goddess Isis was found and even with modern suburban houses crowding in all around it still holds a deep and sacred energy. Springs bubble up and flow into the valley where brooks and streams flow south and westward before joining the River Ray on its northerly journey onward to the Thames.
Across the rooftops of the houses I can see the washed watercolour green of fields and low rolling-hill countryside, with the water tower of Minety glinting in the sun, more than 10 miles away westward. Beyond that the distant grey of the south Cotswolds is visible so clear is the air on this beautiful morning.
A little further along my walk I cross Lady Lane and just to the north of me there is the site of Blunsdon Abbey. Here are medieval fish ponds, now overlooked by a mobile home park, with parts of the abbey that remain standing incorporated into ghastly 1960s buildings that form a conference centre.
It’s here along my route south of the Abbey that I come across the first bumble bee I’ve seen this year. On such a frosty morning it’s a surprise to see it stumbling along, silvered transparent wings intermittently flashing in the sun. I stop to greet him and bend down, holding my hand in front of it. Unhesitatingly it climbs up my fingers into my hand to sit there basking in the heat of my hand and the strengthening bright sunlight. We stand there a while – 10, maybe 15 minutes – having a conversation (as you do) until I place him carefully on the ground away from unwary footsteps to continue warming himself under the cloudless sky.
There are blackbirds flitting back and forth; sparrows galore, expressing their joy with that wonderful unrestrained noisy chatter of companionship and, maybe, a little touch of rivalry. Squirrels are bouncing through undergrowth and mischievous magpies gather in little groups like rebellious teenagers, ready to show any gull brave enough to interlope their domain exactly who is in charge. High above a pair of buzzards soar lazily on the warming air. A rook calls from the top of an Alder tree heavy with yellow catkins.
Then on my return home, laying on the damp grass, I find a forlorn little pile of grey brown feathers – all that remains of a sparrow taken by the hawk that visits my garden – a reminder of how transient life can be.