Seasonal Strolls 2026

The field track from the gate onto our gate down to the Sheep Field is bordered on one side by the open arable field with a young cereal crop, and on the other by a blackthorn hedge, kept low and dense by the farmer, the hedge being flailed annually, the top and sides essentially shredded by spinning blades mounted on a tractor. This is an agricultural task for winter, when there will be no birds nesting within the spiny hardwood branches. At this time of the year the hedge becomes striated, as the white blossom fades and gives way to green foliage. The hedge may be impregnable to livestock, but the dogs occasionally find a route through the lowest branches to chase, but never catch, a pheasant that struts along the grassy strip on the far side.

Further on a Rowan tree, or Mountain Ash, is on the verge of bursting into bloom, the clusters of white flowers still a tight bunch of light green against the slightly darker young leaves. Next to it a silver birch dapples the blue sky above. Both trees grow beside the fencing separating the footpath from the adjacent M69 motorway, and I suspect that they were planted as part of the landscaping when the motorway was built in the 1970s.

Leaving the motorway behind the path skirts rough grassland, occasionally enclosed with electric fencing so that a small flock of sheep can graze, but at the moment vacant, and still boggy in places after the wet winter. Red Campion is growing along the field edge, but maybe of more interest is the much smaller plant and white flowers of Garlic Mustard, almost missed as it nestles behind the Campion. Garlic Mustard, along with other wild brassicas, is favoured by the orange tipped butterfly, which times its emergence from the chrysalis to coincide with the flowering of Garlic Mustard and the other plants on which the butterfly feeds. Later in the day, walking along the footpath to the village, we see an orange tip butterfly feeding on Miners Lettuce, its wings spread in the warm spring sunshine.

It has been “lambing time” for several weeks, although around us it is only in the last two or three weeks that lambs have appeared in fields, and even then, not near routes that we regularly walk. Yesterday ewes and lambs had been moved onto a field on the far side of the valley behind our home, bordering a track that we regularly use. The dogs sat patiently while I leaned over the gate to take a photograph, and the sheep obligingly strolled over to come and see me, followed by their lambs. Presumably this gate is where food arrives daily, a supplement to the grass. This afternoon we visited the sheep again, this time with my family in tow. Town dwellers, they spent some time admiring the ovine families, evening attempting some conversation with them, until they remembered that a leg of lamb was in the oven, in readiness for a roast dinner, and they guiltily continued on our walk.

After two weeks without significant rain, the river is at its lowest level for months, and the field no longer has wet areas to be avoided. Most footpaths are dry, with just a few areas of soft mud which can easily be by-passed, carefully following the drier edges. Our network of walking routes is beginning to expand, as routes that are impassable in winter, at least without wellies and the consequence of very muddy dogs. Having taken account of dry paths around the field behind us, we attempt a route that includes one notoriously muddy stretch. This proved to be a mistake, with several metres of deep liquid mud that reached the top of my walking boots, but too far around the circuit to be worth turning back. On our return home some time was spent hosing dogs and cleaning boots.

Along the tree-lined footpath down to the village purple Dog Violet is blooming among the dense growth of the fragile stems and leaves of Cleavers and other low growing plants. The “dog” of dog-violet refers to the fact that the flower is not scented, rather than the canine pet, distinguishing the dog-violet from the similar but scented Sweet Violet. This is the only meaning of “dog” referring to scentless that I have come across!

Green Alkanet is flowering under hedgerows around more open field edges. Traditionally the blue flowers would have been used to make dyes, presumably requiring a lot of this quite small plant, although the plant will continue to increase in size as we progress towards summer, eventually reaching up to a meter in height. The wildflowers beneath our feet are a sign of late spring and early summer, but the white snowdrifts of blackthorn blossom still dominate the wild hedges that have not been cut back over winter, although becoming more patchy as flowers fade and leaves, which for Blackthorn emerge after flowering, sprout from woody branches.

We have new neighbours on our Lane. We have a field opposite our home that has always been arable, at least long as the 24 years that we have lived here, and I suspect for decades before that, mostly growing cereal crops, but also occasionally oil seed rape and maize. We were somewhat surprised several weeks ago when we noticed fence posts being installed around the field, soon followed by electric fencing. Crops do not need fencing in. As we suspected would happen, cows have now arrived in the field, the dairy herd that we have seen, complete with a mobile milking parlour, on fields between our Lane and Croft village. The milking parlour hasn’t made it onto the field, and is still located in the next field, necessitating the herd crossing another country lane for milking.

The cows have a large area to graze, although are restricted to a part of each field before being moved on every couple of days or so.  From my OS map app I reckon they have 100 acres to graze, and since I estimate the herd to be 50 cows, that is 2 acres per cow. A quick online search found a “Farmers Weekly” item that stated that 1 acre will feed 40 cows for 24 hours, suggesting that “our” herd will only need to revisit a grazing patch every couple of months. Some of the grazing land is not yet well established, and may need to be less intensively grazed . It will be interesting to see, after the cows move on from the far side of the Lane, how long it will be before they return. Incidentally the Farmers Weekly article also said that farmers are turning from arable to grazing because of increasing costs, and that was in 2018, before the Ukraine and Iran conflicts that so dramatically increased the cost of diesel and fertilizer.

A cool start to what turned out to be the warmest day of the year so far. The grass is dew-wet under my boots, and the dogs’ paws leave trails through the sheep field. I see a Great Egret perched atop the trunk of a dead tree by the riverbank, and I deviate from my route across the field to get a closer look. The Egret ignores us all, despite the dogs running and rolling in the grass, only taking off when we get close to the bottom of the tree, flapping off to the riverside area of rough grassland on the far bank, and we rejoin our originally planned route up to the track at the top of the shallow valley.

The soundscape is dominated by the constant song of a skylark, high above us, as we walk through several fields. I have no idea whether this is all from a single bird, or more than one. I listen for other birds and use my “Merlin” app on my phone as I walk back down from the track, recording a crow and magpie in addition to the skylark in the few seconds before I stop recording to tackle the stile and unstable wood bridge into the Sheep Field. I turned on the app again on the track back up to our lane and recorded eight more species.

This afternoon, we walk down to the Glebe, my wife carrying a bag full of empty eggboxes, which we will exchange for fresh eggs from our friend who walks her spaniels with us, and who keeps hens. I think we get the better of the deal. We would never get eggs this fresh from a supermarket.

I note the “mobile milking parlour” in the field across the road. The cows are restricted, using electric fencing, to an enclosed area for grazing, the herd moved around to fresh grass every few days. The milking parlour follows them. The cows know when to queue at, and eventually enter, the parlour at the appropriate time, rewarded by food. The farmer has a contract with Long Clawson dairy, one of the six dairies where Stilton Cheese is made.

Along the path down to the Glebe daffodils bloom among the lesser celandines, and the afternoon sun illuminates the purple Butterbur flowers that grow beside the ditch by the entrance to the Glebe. The sticky buds on some Horse chestnut trees have sprouted young leaves, looking like multilobed flannels hung out to dry, and young hazel leaves have emerged from the low shrubs among the trees beside the track

A wet and windy night, but by this morning the sun is shining, although the wind has not abated. We walk up the “New Hill” by the quarry. The ascent, which has been drying nicely, is once again slippery with ankle deep mud in places. At the top the path passes through flowering blackthorn shrubs which, just a few days ago, were tight buds. Now the flowers have opened, enclosing the path like a church aisle draped in white for a wedding, but is will be few more days before the bushes are covered in white floral froth, as are those at the bottom of Croft Hill.

As we climb further up, I look behind while waiting for Sam to sniff every blade of grass, checking out which dogs have passed this way over the last couple of days. I see one of the regular walkers in the distance, with his two fox hounds on lead. If he gave them their freedom, they would be off, following the first scent of foxes or deer and would run a long way before stopping. As a result, their owner walks a lot of miles to give them the exercise that they need. As we get higher we leave the shelter of Croft Hill, on the far side of the quarry, and wind is strong on the exposed ridge.

We drop down to the leeward side of the ridge, walking through the lush grass which has benefitted from the warmer weather as well as the moisture in the ground from a wet winter. Cowslips have emerged, scattered thinly across the grassland rather than in groups. The flowers provide an early source of nectar for bees and insects, although none were visiting the blooms on this windy morning.

We walk back around the quarry and up Croft Hill. The blackthorn is almost in full blossom on some of the shrubs on the side of the Hill, but on immediately adjacent branches the buds have barely opened. The flowering season seems to be extended this year, rather than the full-on overwhelming blanket of white in the hedgerows across the landscape, that usually seems to appear over only a few days.

As expected, the wind at top of the Hill, open in all directions, is strong and gusty. I can almost lean into the wind. The dogs face into the wind, sniffing the scents from the landscape around us. Today the scents are collected from the countryside by the westerly breeze and delivered to the appreciative dogs in a concentrated serving.

Back to typical early spring weather, bright, cool, blustery, the wind blowing the dogs fur, their ears flapping as they squint into the wind. The first part of our walk becomes a meet-a-spaniel event, in fact three of them in the first few minutes. The first is a regular, and we owners stop for a natter while the three dogs play. A runner passes us just as we are all going on our separate ways. Sam and Ellie ignore runners – they are always timing themselves, far too occupied to stop and fuss dogs, and in any case, they never carry dog treats.

The runner pauses briefly on the river bridge in front of us, before disappearing ahead, and when we get to the bridge we see why – another spaniel is doing circuits, the owner a short distance away. Since the spaniel is off lead, I let our two through onto the field, and the spaniel promptly heads at speed towards the far end of the field. The owner explains that his dog is nervous of other dogs, and so I put ours on lead as we head for the stile on the other side. It is a month since I reported the stile as being somewhat dodgy, with regular flooding dislodging the footbridge to which the stile is attached. The stile and bridge must still be crossed with care. Maybe the County Council is saving funds for a more substantial bridge.

Walking the up the field beyond, and we see out third spaniel, the dog and owner walking up the far hedgerow, some distance from is, unusual since there is no path there, and certainly no right of way. Maybe this is another nervous spaniel. I planned turn back at the top of the field, since Sam is limping slightly, possibly arthritis, but instead we walk a little further along the track at the top of the field, allowing spaniel and owner to head in the opposite direction towards Huncote. We are rewarded by the first Speedwell, Birds Eye Speedwell, nestling in the grass beside the track. The flower is common and may be considered a weed if it appears on a carefully manicured lawn. Here, in its natural habitat, it is another welcome sign of the season.

After the warm springtime weather of only a couple of days ago, the weather is once again cold, the landscape grey, and once again with more of a Winter than Spring appearance. Only the splashes of white from wild cherry shrubs dotted among the greys and browns of bare hedgerows remind me that we are on the cusp of an explosion of new life and colour, when Spring finally overcomes Winter.

But looking away from the landscape to my immediate surroundings and I see more signs of Spring. I always look forward to the full bloom of Blackthorn, exuberant frothy white blossom in hedges and tall shrubs that dominate Croft Hill and the surrounding walks. Today, around the bottom of the Hill,  I see the first open blossom among white buds. Only a few minutes away, further up on the more exposed quarry edge, the Blackthorn buds remain tightly closed, although the bushes lining the footpath give a hint of the forthcoming frothy display. By Autumn this blossom will develop into sloes, ready for flavouring Sloe Gin

Blackthorn blossom emerges before the leaves, whereas Hawthorn comes into leaf before the branches produce white blossom in most of the hedgerows around us. Today I see the first Hawthorn leaves emerging, but it will be May, with summer on the horizon, before the white Hawthorn blossom lines local highways and byways.

Beyond the Hawthorn Goat Willow catkins have appeared, in this case the female catkins. Young male catkins are furry, hence the name “Pussy Willow”. While photographing the catkins I hear a bark behind me and a black Labrador appears, followed by two ladies who I don’t recognise – at weekends visitors from nearby towns travel to walk around the quarry, and local dog walkers have a different routine. My two and the labrador bound up to greet each other but unfortunately, I hadn’t noticed a nervous Border Terrier behind the ladies. The Terrier flees beneath a gate but is quickly retrieved by his owner before reaching the road. We let all four of them carry on before us.

The ground is drier in places, but the slope up to the quarry edge remains wet and muddy, albeit the areas of mud have shrunk a little to allow narrow tracks of less liquid mud at the edges. I am pleased to note that Sam and Ellie carefully stay out of the worst of the quagmire.

We continue along the grassy ridge above the quarry to end of the ridge, with views overlooking the south Leicestershire countryside, where the ground descends to steps that lead down to the river, and paths along the bottom of the Hill. These will be very wet and muddy, and so we follow the upper fringe of the woodland on the slope above the river, before climbing back to the top of the ridge. 

We meet a Cockapoo and owner, and the owner and I stop for a chat. We are of an age when, after traditional comments on the weather, the conversation turns to health matters, before we joined by a second Cockapoo, and I leave Cockapoos and owners to continue together along the path that we have just followed.

A glorious morning, with a hint of mist over dew-soaked grass. Among the bare branches of the trees around the bottom of Croft Hill a woodpecker drums against a trunk, probably a Greater Spotted Woodpecker, the variety that we see and hear in our garden which is not far from the Hill. The woodpecker maybe excavating into the bark for grubs, or, at this time of the year, drumming to establish a territory and attract a mate. Woodpeckers may drum on a variety of objects to attract a mate, not just trees. A year or so ago a persistent male repeatedly drummed our rooftop TV ariel, the metallic vibration reverberating around our home, often waking us at first light. Further on during today’s walk I hear the laughing call of the Green Woodpecker, as it swooped through trees on the edge of The Glebe.

We climb out of the trees and up onto Croft Hill itself. The kissing gate, which we have just passed through, clangs, and I give a wave through the trees below us to one of the local dog walkers from the next village, who has looked after our dogs in the past. We pause at the top of the Hill just to enjoy the view and the warmth of the strengthening sunshine. Sam, in particular, enjoys the view – he has always been a dog that likes to sit and observe his surroundings.

Descending to the path towards the village we meet cockapoo Taffy and stop for a brief chat with his owner, who comments that she is overdressed for an unexpectedly mild walk. We cross the road to join the Lane towards Potters Marston, where Butterbur flowers emerge from the ditch running alongside the lane. By mid-summer these plants will be tall, with leaves up to 1m across spreading across the damp area between the lane and Croft Glebe.

Leaving the Lane we continue behind the Glebe, circling back along the muddy path that leads back to the road into the village. Well-trodden, damp and under trees, this is one of the last paths to dry out in spring, and today it is wet. Golden Retrievers are notorious for enjoying a run, and maybe a roll, in mud. We are lucky. Ours always avoid squidgy wet mud if they can, and they find a narrow track through the trees, avoiding a large muddy puddle, to keep relatively clean.

On Croft Glebe, a large field with mature trees, the sticky buds of horse chestnuts, Conker Trees, have appeared. Horse Chestnuts are not native trees, only introduced into the UK about three hundred years ago, and so are more common in parks and managed landscapes than in woodland. Croft Glebe was once the village cricket field but has been managed by the Woodland Trust since the Millenium.

Back at home I take advantage of the warm weather for some gardening – at last the soil is dry enough to allow me access to shrubs for pruning. I notice a sprayer traversing the cereal crop in the field behind us, probably herbicide or fungicide. As the sprayer moves back and forth across the field, a hare leaps up in front of the vehicle, circles around, and flees across the field, heading for the hedgerow and safety of the adjacent field, at least until the sprayer moves into this next field to continue applying the chemical across the land.

Yellow dominates at this time of the year, when flies, with limited colour vision, are the main pollinators. The buds of some of the earlier daffodils, planted along the grass verge on our Lane, are beginning to burst, but in the countryside, it is Lesser Celandine that is the first truly wildflower to greet the new season, glossy yellow flowers backed by glossy heart shaped leaves nestling under trees.

Further along the path Coltsfoot is flowering, another yellow spring flower that hugs the ground beneath the trees. Unlike Lesser Celandine, the Coltsfoot flower appears before the leaves.

It is not all yellows among the greens in the countryside. Purple dead nettle, also called red dead nettle, is another flower that hugs the ground. This nettle does not sting, and the early flowers are a source of nectar for bees, mostly solitary and bumble bees, that can be seen flying on the warmest days.

Above the purple flowers of dead nettle is the white blossom of the wild cherry shrub. This cherry blossom has been in bloom for several days. The cultivated cherries in gardens have yet to flower.

We cross the road and follow the public right of way along a private road, Croft Glebe on one side, and large detached houses, some gated, on the other. The road opens onto a field which has been arable for many years, but the farmer now plans to graze cattle on the land. Grass has been sown, mixed with Ribbed Plantain, or Forage Plantain. The Plantain supplements the grass, allowing grazing earlier than if just grass is sown. Cattle will probably be restricted, by electric fencing, to a small area of the field, the grazed area being moved around the field to allow the grass to recover for a while.

Leaving this field, we cross a stile to turn back towards Croft Glebe. A gate opposite the stile leads to a horse’s field, but for the first time in a while there are no horses. The area of mud has finally exceeded the grass, and the horses have had to be moved to a field further from the road, further for the lady who owns the horses to wheel bags of food for the horses in her wheelbarrow. Even more than the rest of us, she will be glad when we get a dry warm spell to dry the ground.

We seem to in a weather pattern of one dry day sandwiched between two or more days of rain, and we make the most of the more pleasant days by taking the dogs for longer walks, although some routes are still avoided as being too muddy. The field side track behind our home is dry enough, but the riverside “sheep field” at the bottom of the track still squelches underfoot, and the river remains high.

Thanks to brighter days, with longer daylight hours and somewhat higher temperatures, the cereal crop beside the track is growing noticeably. I have no idea what the cereal is, and since I am not a farmer, I won’t know until the seed heads develop in Summer. Wheat is the most common crop in these fields, with oil seed rape every two or three years. Tall maize was grown in one year. Maize is harvested in Autumn, and this was a particularly wet Autumn. Tractors got stuck, trailers overturned, and the field and adjacent track were muddy and deeply rutted for months.

We walk across the sheep field and very carefully climb over the stile and wooden bridge on the far side. Repeated flooding has damaged both the stile and wooden bridge that cross the ditch on the other side have been damaged by recent floods. This is the third time that they have been damaged this winter, and on each occasion, I have made an online report to the County Council, but on each occasion the landowner made the stile and bridge safe, although still in poor condition, before the Council inspected the damage. I have suggested to the Council that the bridge be upgraded to a more substantial concrete structure, as crosses the river on “our” side of the field.

We follow the footpath alongside the field on the other side of the stile and up to the farm track at the top, following the track briefly before circuiting a field bridleway back to our route home. I spot prints of cloven hooves in the mud beside the farm track, and initially suspect deer, maybe Roe deer, since the tracks are too large for the Muntjac that are common, although rarely seen, around here. A little further on there are multiple tracks along the track, and I realise that these are not from deer. Sheep have been driven between the farm and fields further down the track.

A lone horse rider appears some distance behind us on the bridleway, waiting to see if we are continuing into the woods or branching off along a field path. We follow the path, and I keep the dogs close, expecting the rider to canter down the straight slope towards the woods, as we sometimes see riders do, but she doesn’t and she follows us at a steady pace. No doubt the path is too wet and potentially slippery to risk a fall and injury to horse and rider.

Back across the squelchy sheep field and up to the gate onto our Lane, where snowdrops bloom abundantly along the roadside. Behind them daffodil stems are beginning to grow tall, but it will be two or three weeks before the first yellow blooms appear.

Walking around the bottom of the Hill, a young mastiff appears out of the low sunshine, much bigger than our two, and quite lively. The owners are just behind, sounding a bit concerned, but I assure them that my Goldies are laid back, although I think that they are a little wary of such a big boisterous pup, and we move on, climbing the Hill, looking down the frozen slope below. The final few metres are steep, and I slip where wet ground has frozen, but stay on my feet.

A couple without a dog are admiring the view at the top of the Hill and a man with a small dog on a lead is seated on a rock a short distance away. I put ours on a lead, since not everyone, especially people without their own dog, appreciates enthusiastic greetings from two muddy Golden Retrievers. In fact, the couple are happy to say hello to the dogs before they walk hand-in-hand back down the Hill.

 It is just as well that Sam and Ellie are on leads, since as soon as the small dog spies my two it begins to bark loudly and aggressively. I’m sure that my two would have stayed clear, even if off lead. I greet the owner, before stopping briefly to admire the view myself – the landscape around us is wet, very wet, with flooded fields in all directions.

I carefully descend the Hill, staying on rough grass as the dogs confidently run and play around me. With Four-Paw-Drive, they are not going to slide uncontrollably down the frozen ground. The track from the Hill down to the road is thawing in the sun, and the dogs begin to get muddy, as they have been after every walk for weeks. In an attempt at mud-minimisation I choose not to cross the road to walk on the Glebe – the path to the entrance gate is ankle-deep in liquid mud. Instead we walk down to the village along the tree-lined top path, returning along the lower path, where we a greeted by a cheerful group of crocuses, one of several growing between the two paths.

Another small but promising sign that Spring is on the horizon – a tiny first leaf on a Hawthorn bush at the bottom of Croft Hill. Just the one leaf, hardly the “sheen of green” that will appear on hawthorn hedges in a few weeks, as each branch is covered in buds and newly emerged leaves, a coating of powdery green over the underlying bark of the branches beneath.

A large flock of crows, a “Murder” of carrion crows, sits in the trees around the quarry edge, all but a few casually flapping away as we approach, to circle lazily around us and settle back into the bare branches behind us. Although there a lot of crows around the quarry, it is unusual to see so many gathered together in the highest branches of just two or three high trees. We usually see them circling below in the quarry, or higher in the sky, mobbing birds of prey.

Ahead of us we see a dog-walker approach in the distance, and as we get closer my two dogs recognise the dog as a fellow Golden Retriever. The three dogs crouch on the ground, tails wagging, before they rush towards each other, running together in circles – Goldies always seem to recognise each other, and are enthusiastic in their greetings. Unusually the owner was not so enthusiastic, and after a brief nod and smile continued on, calling his dog, without the usual chat between owners of the same breed. A couple of minutes later we meet a Collie and his owner, regulars on our routes, and we stop to chat, the usual topic between dog walkers at this time of the year – weather and mud.

We descend through the woods, mostly birches, with views of the river and flooded fields visible below through the bare trunks and branches. Between the silvery bark of the trees the woodland floor dominated by tired looking brambles, and much more verdant green moss, thriving on lower tree trunks and path-side rocks. This slope faces north, the ground damp, allowing cushions of mosses to thrive. During the drought and heat of last summer, the moss dried to a green-tinged brown, but moss is resilient, and now the soft green growth almost fluoresces in the shade of the woodland.

Emerging from the trees onto open grass, I see that the path below is flooded, the water edged with mud. I decide to ascend the grassy slope back to the upper path, seeing another regular dog walker, striding along the edge with his walking stick, his Border Terrier at his heels. We are not yet within hailing distance to greet him, and in any case, Sam has decided to sit on the grassy slope behind us, just admiring the view. I call him to me, and we climb up to the higher drier path. We don’t avoid the mud completely – the slope back down to the bottom of Croft Hill is slippery with liquid mud, although not deep. The dogs, very sensibly, manage to keep to the edge, staying reasonably clean.

Bright sunshine and blue sky, and so it is surprising that other walkers are few and far between. We walk onto the bottom of Croft Hill, the breeze rattling the branches of young birch trees that line the path. Up the muddy incline onto the quarry edge path, gradually ascending and enjoying the clear views. A lone walker emerges from the grassy slope above the lower path. I suspect that she has decided to join the higher path to avoid the worst of the deep mud at the bottom of the slope. My “Good Morning” as I keep the dogs close is greeted with a wave.

Our descent is also along a muddy path, although merely slippery rather than semi-liquid, the path following the quarry fence until we cut down through woods to the river. I put the dogs on leads – this is a favourite swimming spot for them in warmer weather, but today the water will be too cold, especially as they will be wet for a while before we get home.

The next few hundred metres is not pretty, the path sandwiched between the Leicester-Birmingham railway and quarry buildings, the route lined with steel fencing. Locals are still grateful for this route, created by the quarry a few years ago. Until the path was constructed there was no way of circuiting the quarry from the local village, and despite its urban appearance, the route is popular with local dog walkers, a convenient 3 mile circular walk from the village, with the option of climbing Croft Hill.

The path eventually leaves the railway, twisting up a short ramp to join the quarry access road, a fence separating walkers from the quarry lorries that rumble past on weekdays. This is only a short stretch before we reach steps down to the village recreation ground, but it is along the short narrow path beside the quarry road that we meet our first dog walkers, three groups, one after another, and we have to pass close, constrained by the fence – luckily all dogs are friendly, and merely want to “meet and greet”.

Crossing the recreation ground we eventually get the old village, originally a cluster of terraced quarry-workers houses huddled around what was then the quarry entrance. Now this road is a quiet cul-de-sac, the terraced houses supplemented by larger houses of various ages. At the end of the road we pass the pub, my local, and then the village church, where we turn to follow the track along the lane back home. At last, I see what has been reported elsewhere for a week or so – wild snowdrops, the first true sign that spring is on the horizon.

When folk in town fancy the idea of moving to a nice place in the countryside, with all those bracing country walks, they probably haven’t visited the countryside in January. In January much of the countryside can be described in one word. Mud. Pastureland squelches underfoot. Arable land becomes claggy, wet soil transferring onto boots if one strays from the path onto young crops maybe to avoid pools of brown water across footpaths. And as for the footpaths themselves, at best they are slick with mud, but anywhere well-trodden, such as gateways or stiles, the ground is a quagmire.

Today my wife has to take her car to a local garage for a service, and she drops me and the dogs at the next village, so we can walk back home via the scenic route. We set off along a disused railway, now a popular dog walking route, two miles of tree-lined compressed stone path, serviced with regular dog waste bins, and access points into the adjacent housing estate.  We leave the surfaced route after half a mile, climbing over a high stile, fortunately with a gap beneath for dogs, to follow a footpath across fields back to our Lane. Sam promptly runs off among adjacent trees, glad to be back on grass, but returns when whistled.

We walk past a farm and follow a field edge path to a gate into an open field. Having often walked this route over Summer I am not concerned about warning signs about a bull, or cows and calves. There has never been a bull in this field, and cows, when in residence, have never been accompanied by calves. Many years ago, we followed a footpath through a field with cows and calves, and were chased, the cows not all intimidated by shouts or being hit with a stick. We escaped into a neighbouring garden – a retired farmer in the garden saw the situation and shouted us over. Our dog at the time, a German Shepherd, was able to outrun the cows, and joined us. Without the gardener, we would have been trampled. Today the fields on our route are all empty of livestock.

The gateways along the route are all flooded, but easily passable in wellies. Some gates are surrounded by deep liquid mud, passable but the going along these few metres is not easy.

We finally reach a road, and cross to the end of a bridleway that will lead to the fields behind our home. Whole stretches are ankle deep in mud. The dogs sensible hug the narrow edges beneath the hedgerows, but this isn’t an option for me, and wading through the porridge-like consistency is hard work, with the potential to end up on my back for an unplanned mud bath. Along one of these semi-liquid paths we meet a couple with a large Rhodesian Ridgeback on a lead. I manage to get my two on a lead, as they explain that their dog gets very excited when meeting others. We agree that this area is not the best for dogs to play in, or even “meet and greet” on lead, with the potential for dogs to pull owners onto their faces in the mud.

For various reasons it’s going to be short walk today, just a circuit of the Sheep Field. As we walk down the field track behind our home a Great White Egret takes off from a riverside rough land area in front of us. For several years this area was cultivated, but thanks to regular flooding the landowner has given up trying to grow crops, and the area has been allowed to “rewild”. At present the area is flooded, with marshy areas around the perimeter, and we often see the egret and a local heron standing in the water. I expect the egret to circle and either fly away from us over the Sheep Field, or settle back onto the marsh, but instead it flies over us before turning and landing further along the river.

We cross the river bridge  into the Sheep Field. Thanks to last week’s snowmelt followed by a couple of days of heavy rain the ground squelches beneath my wellies, and the dogs run through pools of water. The track through the grass left by the sheep when last in residence is a rivulet of standing water.

Following the edge of the field, a gate post sprouts a bunch of ivy, what is left after the overgrown gate and fences were cleared earlier in the year to allow access into the field by sheep, driven from the farm across the fields. Two days ago, on a frosty morning, I looked over the gate into the field beyond, watching half a dozen hares chasing each other around the field. Today I just see one solitary hare grazing, before splash back across the field to cross back over the river bridge.

I decide to look out for any early signs of spring but only find those signs of nature that are part of the winter’s scene. At the top of our Lane ivy grows thickly over a hedge and out into the narrow verge, forcing walkers onto the road. The dense shiny dark green climber has produced masses of dark berries, welcome food for larger birds, such as blackbirds and thrushes, who cannot take advantage of hanging feeders in nearby gardens.

We had a particularly abundant crop of sloes this year, the berry of the Blackthorn shrub. Locals have picked what they need for sloe gin, or, in the case of one lady who I meet on Croft Hill, to make fruit tea, the sloes infused with other berries and herbs. Birds have had three months to feed on the sloes, but still the Blackthorne bushes bordering paths and fields bear a lot of the berries, now frosted and so technically at their best for Sloe Gin. I, like most people who make Sloe Gin, pick in October, before birds strip the bushes, at least in normal years, and then “frost” the berries in the freezer.

Rosehips, the berries of wild dog rose shrubs, are less abundant, but still quite common among the tangled hedges around the quarry. These berries, full of vitamins, can be used to make jelly, syrup or fruit tea, although I haven’t tried any of these recipes.

Hazel catkins dangle from large shrubs that border the lower path down from the Hill to the bottom gate onto the Lane. Hazel bears male and female catkins on the same plant, those fluttering in the wind, resembling tiny wriggling lambs’ tails being the female. No insects at this time of the year – the catkins rely on wind to distribute pollen.

Elder leaves have already emerged, always one of the first shrubs to do so. At time of the year the shrub is barely noticeable but is summer it will produce the showy white umbrellas of blossom, which some collect to make elderberry wine or cordial.

As expected yesterday, and forgotten, thawing snow melt has created large pools of water in a soggy Sheep Field, and so instead of crossing the bridge into the field, we turn right along the field edge track. The ground is frozen, the remaining snow crunching underfoot. The adjacent ditch has overflowed onto the track in places, before freezing, and the ice already broken by earlier walkers.

Emerging onto Croft Hill, the original “Old Hill” the path up is as icy as it has been for a few days, but today the overlying frozen snow gives grip as we climb. Two runners come up from behind and pass us, heading for the top. The dogs ignore them – they have long learned that runners do not stop to give them a fuss and a treat. The runners continue upwards and disappear through the line of bushes that grow below the Trig point at the top of the Hill.

Another wintery walk in bright sunshine. Thanks to a logs delivery, it is a later then usual dog walk, and in consequent we meet dogs who we don’t usually come across, plus at least one regular. A boxer comes towards us, and since it is on lead I call my two to put them on lead, as required by dog walkers’ etiquette. The owners of the boxer shout out to reassure me that I don’t need to – their pooch is just not very good at “recall” – returning when called. We chat, and the boxer, just 9 months old, is released to run around with Sam, since if I call Sam, then the boxer will follow. Cockapoo Freddie arrives, and we all chat while dogs play, but an approaching lurcher on a lead persuades the others to continue up to the Lane while we go to meet the lurcher,  only on lead because, as you would expect, the sight of any rabbit, hare or pheasant would result in the lurcher disappearing in hot pursuit.

We cross the road to walk up the steep and rutted track up the side of the “New Hill”, this track usually muddy and so mostly avoided at this time of the year, but today frozen, as the path climbs between the wintery-bare shrubs and grasses on the side of the hill. At the top we meet a family, Mum, Dad and young daughter. Mum and Dad are keen to say hello to Sam and Ellie, the daughter less so, despite sharing her name with Ellie, and I hang on to the dogs collars to prevent an over enthusiastic greeting to Ellie the daughter, who is shorter than pooch-Ellie would be if she chose to jump up to give a hug.

As we approach the top, I see a young couple sitting close together on the rocks around the Trig Point, looking out across the view of South Leicestershire. I put both dogs on lead – the couple will not want their shared time together enjoying the wintery scene interrupted by two bouncy and over friendly Golden Retrievers. The girl comments than my dogs are cute. She wouldn’t be saying that if she was being mugged by Sam trying to give her a hug.  We continue down the Hill and back home. I have logs to stack.

 We cross the road to follow a private lane leading to a bridleway. A man in a high-viz coat is bending down by his car at the top of the lane, and I wonder if all is is well, but he explains that he always stops here to feed a robin that sometimes lands on his hand – the robin flew into the hedge as we approached. He usually drives down the lane and along the bridleway in his car, not a 4×4, to take food, and today containers of water, to a field where his daughter keeps horses. I’ve not met him before, but I knew from other dog walkers that this was a daily event. Today he decided that the bridleway is too slippery for his car, and he has dropped off the horse supplies at the bottom of the lane. I meet his owner coming along the bridleway pushing a wheelbarrow to collect the supplies. We stop to chat – she rents three fields, using just one at a time so that she can move the horses around to prevent the ground from being churned up. The current field is muddy by the gate, but mud free beneath trees at the back – they will stay there for the time being

We return through Croft Glebe and do an extra circuit when we meet a friend and her two lurchers. At least we meet the owner – the dogs are running circuits around the Glebe. We leave the lurchers and cross back over road to continue back up track towards home, meeting mongrel pooch Pebble and her Mum. We happily chat about our respective Christmas days, in both of our cases the day dominated by keeping Mothers-in-Law happy. Having caught up with the local gossip me and my two continue on the path, noting that Hazel catkins have appeared alongside the path. We skirt around the bottom of Croft Hill rather than attempt another slippery ascent, and head for home.

We have lost the bitter easterly wind and so, despite thick mist under a slate-grey it actually feels relatively mild despite the temperature still hovering above zero. I start this morning’s walk by climbing up Croft Hill, hoping that yesterday ice has thawed sufficiently to allow my boots to grip, unlike yesterday. The ice has not thawed, but I manage to climb to the top before walking back down safely through the grass on the far side. We continue down towards the village, meeting a regular dog walker with a pair of Foxhounds. Since they are both on leads, I put my two on a lead, despite knowing that the Foxhounds are friendly – they on lead because off lead they would probably pick up a scent and be gone, following the scent deaf to the cried of their owner calling them back.

We pass the horses, waiting patiently behind the field gate for their breakfast. They neigh at us, expecting to be served, but are disappointed as we continue past. The dogs totally ignore the horses. A friend must put her spaniel on a lead when passing. There are often carrots in the field, and her dog is able to squeeze beneath the gate and steal them for a morning snack – my friend worries that her dog may be trampled beneath substantial hooves.

I start to ascend Croft Hill, but in these drier more open windswept surroundings there is no mud. Instead, the well-worn path is a sheet of ice over the track. I am back in wellies after a few days of wearing walking boots over frosty ground, and it difficult for my wellies to grip the ice, despite Vibram soles, and I walk on the rough grass to the side of the path. The hill is steeper on the far side, where I usually drop back down, and so halfway up I opted to cut across the grassy hillside back to the kissing-gate at the top of our Lane.

The ground has been frozen for a few days, and it has been a delight returning home with clean mud-free dogs, requiring just a wipe of paws with a towel before we could come inside into the warmth. Today the temperature was a degree or so above freezing, and he result is mud over ice, barely a centimetre or so of mud, but enough to splash onto the dogs, spraying up legs and under bellies. They will need a brief hose down when we get home

A month or so ago, from the top of Croft Hill, I noticed that there was a lot of sheep across the landscape, more than usual. In winter cattle are often brought indoors, but sheep are left outside, even, around here, when lambing, since their lighter weight is less likely to damage damp pasture. But then most fields were emptied of sheep. Maybe there was a seasonal increase of price and demand for lamb. Sheep are starting to appear again in some fields, possibly pregnant ewes prior to lambing – too early to tell.

Before we emerge from the enclosed trackways back onto turf tracks beside arable fields we pass a small stream, usually an opportunity for the dogs to have a dip and swim, but not today. Far too cold for paddling.

After 3 days of hard frost (-5C at sunrise) I decide to walk a route that is usually almost impassable at this time of year, thanks to deep squelchy mud. But to today we walk over the white-frosty ruts across the mud at several places along the paths, after first walking along the turf of the field track behind our home, past the old barn, noting a buzzard and heron flying low ahead. With thick gloves to be removed before raising the camera, it is not a day for wildlife photography, and I just appreciated watching both in flight, one gracefully gliding, the other languidly flapping.

It is the paths beyond the sheep that are notoriously muddy throughout winter, bridleways accessible by horse riders and mountain bikers – we don’t often come across either, but it doesn’t need many hooves or tyres to churn up the wet surfaces. But today the paths were a delight, solid, if bumpy, ground, the paths meandering between sparkling hedgerows.

And so back home along the frosty field tracks which are more regular and familiar routes at this time of the year. We may not have had the dump of snow experienced elsewhere in the UK after the last day or so, just an overnight sprinkling here, but it has been a glorious winter walk under a deep blue sky, a peaceful walk – no other dog walkers out and about on our route today