It feels like winter proper now. The daff is putting a brave face on it, but there's a hard frost and a skim of ice on the ponds. A few tattered, ragged leaves blow across the frozen surface. Early mornings are the best times. The heron has taken to hunting voles in the field. Muttley would join him, but the heron doesn't like company, and mutts doesn't like cold feet. I saw two roe deer in the reserve yesterday, and today the  buzzards were wheeling above the culm meadow. Their harsh cry sounds like freedom. Back at ground level, blackbirds are fossicking through the leaves looking for food, and wrens - brown bundles of whirring energy - hurtle between the hedgerows. When the clouds clear the whole landscape goes from austere to beautiful, with an achingly blue sky, briars bejewelled with frost, and the low sun bringing deceptively warm tones to the sere reeds and bare willows.