Winters march

Winter marches on through the forest with determination, Cadmans pool is already capped by a crust of thick translucent ice, while the ground is now hard under, rough and uneven to walk on, although in the more sheltered tracts the frost has formed a crusty glaze, giving the illusion of solidity, whilst really merely disguising gloopy mud below. Latchmore Brook flows with an icy chill, its many obstructions and dams preparing to endure the surge which is surely to come. Now though, the jumbles of fallen trees and boughs, hanging just above the water, have become platforms for frigid sculptures; frozen water fingers dangle, reaching out to rejoin the flow. Island Thorns (1852) and Amberwood (1817) Enclosures are quiet other that the occasional fleeting movement viewed from the corners of your eye and foresters chopping and gathering fire logs.