The Langdale Pikes with the dark gash of Dungeon Ghyll, left of centre Fresh snow on the Langdale Pikes. The dark cleft of Dungeon Ghyll is visible, some twelve miles as the raven flies.
Snow not only on the panorama of fells but on Scout Scar. The face of stone walls patterned with snow, trees outlined in snow. But already the drip, drip, drip of a rapid thaw tells that it won't last.
Snow not only on the panorama of fells but on Scout Scar. The face of stone walls patterned with snow, trees outlined in snow. But already the drip, drip, drip of a rapid thaw tells that it won't last.
Scanning the hawthorn rich with berries, I hear a couple of fieldfare but they fly off. As I approach the Mushroom Shelter I pick up their call and a flock of some fifty flies through the trees, over the snow, sunlit against a sky of intense blue. Calling to each other as they fly. An interlude crammed with memories of fieidfare, of winter thrush in winter landscape, a potent magic.
The enticement of snow is in the air and everyone might head for The Mushroom Shelter and look at landscape transformed by snow but the mushroom is in melt-down. The sun thaws snow on the domed roof of the shelter and it drips onto the seat which is a slop of melting snow and water.
The enticement of snow is in the air and everyone might head for The Mushroom Shelter and look at landscape transformed by snow but the mushroom is in melt-down. The sun thaws snow on the domed roof of the shelter and it drips onto the seat which is a slop of melting snow and water.
It's Sunday morning and folk are out enjoying the snow, dogs love it. A young couple with an infant clutched to her father's chest is here for her first snow. Too young to know it.
I'm always attracted to the seed-head of wood-sage whose structure shows best against snow. Snow melts to transparency and melts away, leaving the stems glistening wet.
I'm always attracted to the seed-head of wood-sage whose structure shows best against snow. Snow melts to transparency and melts away, leaving the stems glistening wet.
To the west, the Langdales. To the east, the sculptural mass of the Howgills, hugged by low cloud so it's impossible to distinguish fell from cloud.
Snow has gone from the trees, from the face of stone walls but there's a crunch of ice underfoot and next morning a weather forecast of ice-hazard.
I go in search of winter thrush, always on the qui vive, alert. And so often they're not where I hope they'll be. This morning there was a mixed flock, fieldfare, redwing, starlings in the tree tops before Kendal Parish Church where we were come to see the charity Christmas trees. And the sun shone on the birds. And a wee boy with a magic light wand and a merry hat brought light to rival the Christmas trees.
Snow has gone from the trees, from the face of stone walls but there's a crunch of ice underfoot and next morning a weather forecast of ice-hazard.
I go in search of winter thrush, always on the qui vive, alert. And so often they're not where I hope they'll be. This morning there was a mixed flock, fieldfare, redwing, starlings in the tree tops before Kendal Parish Church where we were come to see the charity Christmas trees. And the sun shone on the birds. And a wee boy with a magic light wand and a merry hat brought light to rival the Christmas trees.
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