On another cold, albeit slowly brightening, day Jackie and I took a forest drive just after 11 a.m.
Autumn leaves flocking on the still, silent, surface of Pilley’s icy lake will need a thaw before they begin their slow, rocking descent to the bed beneath.
Sage green lichen clung to branches
and decorated damp ivy coated trunks;
lesser limbs became embedded;
spectral skaters scraped converging rimy streaks across the frozen water,
while shaggy Shetland ponies quietly grazed.
The majority of this stubby little herd had rectified their recent absence from Bull Hill
which they now shared with curious cattle.
This bovine fixed me with a customary stare, then turned and
crossed the road. I tried not to take it personally.
Lymington River is tidal and therefore not frozen, and able to ripple and reflect the weak sunshine and Santa’s float.
In an effort to reorganise her fridge and larder, the Culinary Queen produced a varied menu for this evening consisting of left over helpings of my Susan’s chicken, of Shelly’s beef stew, one of her own earlier penne Bolognaise dishes from the freezer. She and I opted for the Bolognese while the others enjoyed some of everything. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Cabernet Sauvignon.