A light fall of snow, and our little world is transformed. The birds are, too: their colours somehow heightened by the icy white backdrop.
Rosie the red-fox labrador and I take a walk around “the loop”, the three-mile circuit behind our Somerset home. A slender grey wagtail bobs on the edge of a steep-sided rhyne, its lemon and grey plumage reflected in the murky water. We come across a standoff between a plump cock stonechat and an equally fat robin, each laying claim to the same length of hedgerow. From time to time, a snipe flies up, hurtling away into the distance; while two skylarks call tentatively, a hint of spring to come.
But the real highlight comes when I notice a flock of lapwings feeding in a boggy field. They take off high to the south, accompanied by a lone golden plover, whose long, pointed wings slice through the wintry air. I look back towards the field, to find dozens of these beautiful waders, their plumage spangling in the late afternoon light.
These are the first goldies I’ve seen here since the last brief cold snap, two years ago almost to the day. Heading home, the sound of dripping from the trees tells me that the snow is already melting, and the world is once again returning from white to green.
The Swallow: A Biography, by Stephen Moss, is published by Square Peg (£12.99)
