Winter is far from grey

How anyone can say that winter is grey is beyond me. Soft green mosses and bright orange bracken glow underfoot, while delicate lichens illuminate the white boughs of silver birch, swaying gently and shimmering with burgundy-tipped twigs.

At this time of year, I enjoy walking the tourist hotspots when they are quiet of people, when the paths fall back into themselves and the landscape exhales. It is a reminder of their beauty, and no wonder people come in their droves when the season turns. Yesterday, though, I had it almost entirely to myself, meandering along muddy rides through alternating sunshine and showers.

A song thrush bellowed its repeated call, each phrase ringing out with certainty, while treecreepers moved mechanically up and around tree trunks. Squirrels dashed through branches and across the forest floor as if it were hot coals, barely touching the ground. I paused among the conifers, drawing in a deep breath of resin and damp earth.

In a sheltered pocket of sun, ponies stood snoozing, drying their backs, steam lifting faintly into the cool air. Deer grazed almost unnoticed in the woods, their quiet presence revealed only by the slightest movement. Sunlight streamed through the trees, illuminating moss-covered stumps, and woodpeckers drummed the tall trunks, sounding out the forest, checking it was still holding winter fast.

It was a joyous walk, and I felt honoured to have it all to myself - walking slowly, attentively, embraced by skyscraping trees.