Seasonal greetings from the Cotswolds to all! Great Britain is undergoing it's coldest winter since records began in the 1890's and here in our patch we have had even worse snow than last January. On Christmas Day we set off for a morning walk around the fields, before everyone else emerged after lunch.
A little brook, half frozen at the edges, but still sluggishly trickling towards a larger tributary of the Evenlode river, a couple of miles away.
The most familiar of paths are transformed -
- and the broad fields are pristine, save for the meandering tracks of wild creatures. The horizon is softened by an icy haze.
The dullest of dead vegetation metamorphosis's into ice sculptures -
- and the stark, sleeping trees appear sepia-black against the sky.
The horse chestnut avenue leading towards the farm -
- and my favourite line of trees looking delicately skeletal; in summer it is a plump lushness of greenery, as seen here.
A welcome stretch of cleared road and the rare sight of tarmac.
To the right of the tree line, the big house seen from the side.
As we come off the road and turn back into farmland, the snow becomes deeper and completely unsullied, undulating over the ploughed trenches like a white desert.
Looking back to see the deep path we have trodden; it was only a few months ago that I was walking here on cracked, baked earth, brushing through chest high wheat, the sun hot on my back, feeling slightly spooked by the whispering of the dried corn heads.
Wait for me Andy - I'm still taking photos!
Time to head home - the village is but a few minutes away, through the hole in the hedge - there is the church and spire beyond, just seen through the freezing mist.
Winding tracks in the snow, where the allotments have been a larder for the rabbits and hares - and goodness knows they need it. Next week the temperatures rise and we will have rain. Despite the stunning beauty of the snow, I think animals, birds and humans will breath a collective sigh of relief as life gets back to normal.
Readers who subscribe to my other blog will know that in early October I broke my upper arm. It's been a long two months and I've been somewhat reclusive since then, venturing out for little local walks when I have had the energy - and not at all in the recent sub-zero temperatures we have not-been-enjoying in the normally temperate UK. But things do, eventually return to normal and yesterday saw a thawing, to our relief, although we have been comparatively lucky, sheltered beneath high ground.
My walk yesterday was the first for weeks and it was simply the same route I've been treading for eight years. It is hard to see it with a fresh eye, especially when one is feeling dull and tired. Winter is, by definition, a fairly lifeless season but the winter greens are managing to push through. Over to my left, as I negotiate icy mud, our village nestles almost camouflaged in the landscape like a brown sleeping mouse in a bundle of dead leaves.
The sheep seem to be weathering the cold, as are the many flocks of crows and jackdaws which punctuate my walk with constant cackles and caws.
But just as it seems as if nothing can break through my ennui, I notice the vivid tans and browns of the landscape, glowing in the warm sun which is melting the last of the snow.
And the way a cloud formation can look exactly like a giant bird of prey in hunched, hunting position, tail down and wings spread.
I have not left the cottage for seven days, and it's been even longer since we saw a bus. Thankfully I have a glut of work to keep me occupied, and we did catch the very best, sunny day to go walking, exactly a week ago. With the difficulties the snow has caused we are thankful that a thaw has set in and I hope to get out and about again. But that day, the snow was at it's best - so here are some memories from the Cotswolds, during what the media like to call 'The Big Freeze'.
Our familiar footpath leading away from the village -
Going up towards the estate farm, and my favourite line of trees.
Hardy sheep scraping back the snow to graze on frozen grass.
A pollarded willow alongside a snow hidden stream -
Walking up to the fields where a pair of ravens are nesting - they too were out and about, raggety-spilling through the cold blue sky with their wonky flight and cronking calls.
Walking in the snow, we found, was quite tiring. Wait for me Andy - you've got the hot chocolate!
I said, wait for me!
Many of the footpaths were untrodden by anyone else except birds and animals. But the gamekeepers and farmers still keep an eye on things - they have landrovers.
This white expanse covers what is usually a crop field, and I have fond memories of walking through waist high rapeseed flowers, whose heavy scent to me is the very essence of Oxfordshire in high summer.
In deep winter however, it looks as if the badger has been the only walker on this path.
Apart from some large Andy-shaped boot prints, left from his walk the day before and already filled in with overnight snow.
After a four mile tramp through the snowy countryside, it was good to hit the road and have some easier walking, back to the village. I am looking forward to seeing some colour in the landscape again.
The snow has come late to our patch of the Cotswolds, but when it did arrive, it fell so quickly I had to dash out to capture it. As I left the village, it was just beginning to lay properly. There was an unusual amount of bustling for a Tuesday afternoon as people stripped our Co-op store of emergency supplies. Our little Victorian church was looking sweetly Thomas Hardy-ish.
Up at the allotments it was hard to see further than a quarter of a mile ahead - white out on the horizons.
I was the only person out walking, in a snow globe world of my own. 
As I left the village, I became wrapped in white muffled quiet, the landscape transforming into a Flemish painting.
Looking back at the allotments and seeing the village disappearing.
I headed for the tunnel and beyond -
Now I felt like an arctic explorer, warm under my layers, as the snow fell faster in thick clumps. 
How beautiful even the bare seed heads appear - the summer froth of cow parsley flowers replaced with ice crystals.
I was not too far from habitation - soon I was heading for a farm, my footprints the only ones, save for the spidery trails left by birds.
Pheasants were flocking to the farm, intent on shelter and filching stray grain from the storage bins. As I approached, they whirred clumsily up into the flurries, cackling rustily, like clockwork toys.
I was back on the lane and turning for home -
- just in time to catch a blurred shot of Mr Hare, not as graceful as he normally is, lumbering across a distant field.
Back towards the top farm I clumped, my mouth open and tongue out to catch the falling flakes.
Snow seems to suit Cotswold houses, the thick stone walls appearing impenetrable from any cold. 
Time to go home. 
Past the gorgeous house-which-should-be-mine...
Past the farmer doing some housework on the hedgerows...
Reaching my favourite footpath which takes me back to the village as dusk falls.
The stream trickles slowly, the only noise save for the distant laughter of children from the central green. 
Dog walkers began to emerge, and I was almost back to civilisation.
In the time I had been out and about, we had been transformed. What will tomorrow bring? 
