Mud, and more mud, the horses, Kracker and Poppy, although wrapped up warm, squelch through Winter’s mire.
Redwing and Fieldfare chatter as they search through the leafless hedgerow, for any remains of Autumn’s bounty. A chill wind ruffles a feather, times are hard.
The sky remains forever grey, full of unpleasantness, waiting to catch us out.
The spirit of every creature is tested during these difficult months, mine included, but as I trudge across the garden, willing myself on, I notice a break in the soil, and just below the surface, waiting for the moment, Snow Drops.
The first in a chain of events that will lead us out of the dark and onward into Summer.
With a smile, I snuggle inside my fleece, look at the waiting ducks, and carry on.
With assistance from Hazel (my stick) I return to the cottage, a crackling log fire and a bottle of fine malt greet me.
With the chill dispelled from my ageing bones, and sat comfortably, I reach out and grab my Old Pulteney.
I watch as the amber liquid poures into my glass with a reassuring glug, filling the air with its scent of Speyside.
I raise my Glencairn of glowing spirit to the fire, the flames, distorted by the cut crystal, dance a glowing dance.
“Happy new year everyone.”
Categories: LT COL BUMF, or was he a General?