If ever there was a way to lift the spirits, out early on a morning like this up on our back hill would take some beating.
There had been a hard frost and as we crunched across the grass, the still, raw air pinched at ears and nose while the freezing fog lay low over the adjacent fields.
The sun was not quite up but the sky in the east was a wash of deep red, presaging its emergence. On the opposite side of the sky, a golden very nearly full moon lingered just above the horizon, as if waiting for the sun before it could disappear.
A solitary star was still visible in an otherwise clear sky and then as it faded from view a very high-up plane drew an arrow-straight white line over our head, disappearing eastwards, who knows where.
No camera could have done it justice: it was winter perfection.
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