With the weather milder - but still dank and wintery - long walks are resumed. The kind of 'duty' walks taken with a stiff upper lip and the intention to get it all over with as soon as possible in order that one might return to a warm sofa, feeling virtuous of soul. Even the pretty village of Eastleach Turville seemed subdued as we started out. 
The river Leach runs through the centre of the village, clean and crystal clear. Behind the trees peeps the tower of one the two churches which sit almost side by side - therein hangs a tale for another day, it is too cold to stand around telling stories.
Sharp eyed Andy spotted a brown trout somehow, amid all the drab browns and greens of the flowing river.
Leaving the village and heading out to the field footpath.
Passing an unpicked orchard, the apples a cheerful brightness against the gloom.
This is one of the bleakest times of the year - not even the faint promise of spring to lift the heart.
The sheep are quiet and sluggish, streaming slowly away from us as we walk through the valley.
At last we reach our stopping point - this rather dull looking muddy track is Akeman Street, part of the old Roman Road which stretches across this part of the Cotswolds. Here we hunker down on the stone wall and gratefully drink watery hot chocolate.
From Akeman Street looking across to the Hatherop Estate as the afternoon draws to a close. We must hurry, if we are not to be finishing our walk in darkness.
But the too-short day catches up with us and soon the trees are dark shadow dancers as we trudge along muddy grass. A lone black bull sillhoutted against the night sky, bellows a challenge in the chill dusk.
With much relief and tired legs, we return to the village, now festively lit with decorated cottages. Such a reviving sight after a rather melancholy walk and the realisation, not for the first time, that if Christmas didn't exist in mid-winter, it would have to be invented.
By co-incidence, we did part of this walk exactly (to the day) a year ago, but the weather was somewhat less gloomy, as can be seen by comparing some of the photos.
A brisk but sunny December day and only a few hours of daylight left. We were off to explore a new walk in a favourite area nearby. It starts here, with a helpful footpath pointer, past sweeping fields and sparse headed trees -
- to scrubby estate woodland and down to a rough crossroads, breaking into a stretch of our usual walk. This is not just any old muddy track though: this is the still used remnant of a straight Roman road, Akeman Street. It goes on ahead through here...
...and up to fields, where it stretches along for about half a mile.
To the left of us, down in the valley, we saw that our old walk - which takes us through softly rolling grassland - was flooded. In summer, we meander alongside the river, which has now breached its banks and spilled over into the pasture.
Reaching the end of this pathway, and looking into the heart of the vale. Under the little stone bridge, the water is flowing strong and deep - four feet, Andy thought, though it is so clean and clear it is difficult to judge.
In a few minutes, this gently rippling silver ribbon will reach the water logged valley we had been viewing earlier.
On the level, looking across from the bridge.
A spectacular beech clump overlooked us as we continued along a lazily winding stone road, our cold nostrils catching the scent of fresh flood water.
Here we said goodbye to Akeman Street; it is not part of this modern path, but cuts through in ruthless, military fashion, across fields, on its way to the Roman town of Cirencester, once the second most important town of the Empire, after London. Here the old road is just visible as a disappearing indentation going up the grassy slope and into the the trees.
A little gateway intersecting the wall indicates that this time trodden route is still used today.
We crossed over to a pastoral hummock of grazing sheep, to begin rounding off our journey.
At this point we found that 'someone' had blocked the footpath - twice - which we intend to report to the relevant authorities. Crossing through silage munching cattle, we had to duck over (Andy) and under (me) barbed wire, where there should clearly have not only been footpath signs, but at the very least, unencumbered access from field to field.
Dark clouds beat across the skies, but only a few drops scattered over us. The showers raced over to descend on Burford, a few miles over the way.
The sinking sun threw long shadows and the fading golden light illuminated the brights of winter bare woods and lichen. We were following a snaking trail, progressing towards a distant beech grove, seen on the horizon.
It had appeared to be a warm purpley brown from half a mile away, but as we drew nearer and the sun caught the tips of the last scraps of foliage, it glowed a warm copppery orange.
Now we were on the last leg of our walk, past farmlands and free range pigs, who were happily rootling around in chilly mud. In the blue distance, the neighbouring county of Wiltshire and another ancient route, the Ridgeway were just visible and somewhere (although unseen) the Uffington White Horse. It is good to be able to place yourself within a landscape - one day we may be over there, looking across to over here. 
The best walks are full circles, and after nearly three hours of tramping we were very glad to see the back of our trusty bike waiting patiently for us. And the remembrance of coffee cake waiting at home.
