Saturday, 6.15pm. The people who live in the little house over the way have lit a bonfire. It must be huge because even at the distance that separates our two homes it appears, in the darkness, to be substantial. It is a vast and flickering orange blob on a wild black night.
How grey it has been today - the glow of that distant fire is welcome. I shall make do with the warmth of our log-burner; sitting close by - with the dogs snoring at my feet - and finding images in flames and embers. Warmth is good.
At hen-letting-out-time this morning my mountain kingdom was swathed in a grey mist. A thin thread of cloud twisted across the dark conifers of Badnage Wood and my face (the only bit of me visible) felt a prickle of wetness. The weather was set in for the day and not inspiring.A bit of wet doesn't bother a hen though - it's the wind that ruffles their feathers. These two look particularly bedraggled after a day in the rain. (The hen in the front is, I think, starting to moult and will look worse still before she gets her new plumage.)