We’ve had misty days, damp and dank days, crisp frosts, blue skies, bright and piercing sunshine and nights that were well below freezing.
The seasonal stream has swollen, the ground going from rock hard to soft to squelchy in a matter of hours.
Birds have been singing, the green woodpecker has been swooping and feasting in the garden, a heron stopped by for a day or two, flying upwards leisurely when disturbed.
The calling sound of the pheasant, we’ve got black ones around here with glints of green in their tails, is a regular sound, as is the voice of my eldest cockerel.
Inside the soft scent of vanilla and ginger hit your senses, as my son gets stuck into his baking project. Plans of my own are being hatched and researched. My head has been scratched endlessly; my brain almost unpleasantly stuffed with information.
I never wish January away. It’s a month that gets a hard time. After all, how could the month following December with it’s bright lights, joyful music, carols and laughter, compete?
But I relish its quietness, the solitude, the nesting. It’s a chance to recover, to plan and a time of anticipation.