I go Oo, Oo, Oo.............

.............that damned song is still worming through my brain.

Today there is a bitter wind from the north, carrying with it flurries of snow. (Will somebody tell the Weather God it's nearly March and the winter should be over and done and the time of the singing of birds upon us?) Yesterday strode out, dog on lead, for the usual-4 miler round what passes for 'the block' in these parts.

Hat, gloves, scarf, gaiters - GAITERS??? - boots and coat against more foul weather. (Thank goodness the style police are not about.) Up our lane, a steep hollow way, and turn right towards Wales, leaving England and the Shropshire Hills behind me. On a clear day the views are stunning. The Stiperstones, Stapley Common and Corndon are in the near distance, rising steeply from the Rea and Camlad Valleys. The Long Mynd stretches along the horizon.

There is a single lamb in the first field, a tiny scrap of a thing nestled in the lee of the ewe. The rest of the flock look up hopefully, begin a mass bleat in anticipation of sheep nuts.

We press on along the lane, getting into our stride - walker and dog. Wind in our faces and a hint of gritty snow. Good for clearing ones head - and thoughts, tunes, images and ideas flood in, a scrambled mess. This 'walk' - done almost daily is becoming my own private space. I am generally uninterupted. A small figure in a landscape - its vastness my own. There is no pace but my own. I am trying to observe the minute detail and intricate lacery in the the turning of the seasons. So one day it is a lamb, tomorrow a snowdrop, always the weather and the sky......... I am trying too to make sense of this landscape in an historical context - it is a very ancient place and I look for ghosts of Briton, Celt and Saxon in the shapes of fields and woods and paths. This ramble may be form of meditation.

40 minutes brisk walking, uphill, brings me to the half way mark and from here it's all downhill. The weather on the top is particularly cold as the wind whips across the common land known as Walton Hill. I'm now walking southeastwards - back towards Shropshire and that impressive line of hills. A narrow lane, a line of beech trees shaped by the wind and house called 'Pleasant View'. Our small settlement - Lower House is just visible behind the hill - from one view point we are the only sign of habitation and look very isolated. Otherwise the landscape is a patchwork of field, hedge and wood. A brief blizzard necesitates a turning up of collars and tugging down of hats. The dog puts has head down against the snow which must be stinging into his eyes.

Take the turn at the little crossroads to Fir House (which may historically be Far House or even Furze House, whatever, which has been demolished and a modern steel barn erected in its place). Snowdrops, planted by some old farmer's wife continue to flower in what was the garden and a few old apple trees linger on, marking the site of an old orchard.

The dog and I stop and talk a while with a local farmer while he feeds his ewes - a flock of Welsh mules which will lamb in a fortnight's time. We discuss sheep in some detail. The dog now has a scent of home and after a struggle with the gate and ubiquitous orange baler twine which fastens it we follow the track which skirts Badnage Wood. There is a dead sheep in the stream at the bottom which I am watching with interest. It has been there for nearly a month now and is slowly 'melting' away in a Daliesque manner. I am watching its transformation from woolly beast to skeleton, from round to flat. It must smell particularly fascintaing to a dog as noses always twitch at this point and leads are pulled towards the stream. My inadequate human nose however cannot detect a thing.

And home. Dog greets other dog as if centuries had passed since their last meeting. Boots off, coat off. Cup of tea. Outside the wind persists and the sky darkens.

.......and 'I go Oo, Oo, Oo' is but a distant echo. I think.