There was a foot of snow on the edge of the Forest of Bowland where where the family and I went to spend Christmas with my parents this year.
With the memory of the Cardington Cracker receding, the boys in bed asleep and my stomach full of too much food I felt that I should get myself out. I left Rach in front of the fire with a good book and the promise of Gavin and Stacey to come and went out through the back gate and onto the moor.
There was a slight thaw and I was glad I'd taped my feet into plastic bags as my feet sank into the water between the tussocks.
Along the line of unmelted snow lining the centre of the road. A still night and moonlit enough to turn off the headtorch. Smoothed and wind-crusted snow in all directions. A curtain of mist away to the right. All very peaceful.
I dropped down past a farm and all hell broke loose as half a dozen chained up sheepdogs went ballistic.
Further ahead the snow was banked-up against the gritstone walls. A silhouette of a hawthorn bent over by the prevailing winds. Magic in the air. And then back, retracing my steps cockily this time past the farm.