Whatever the weather, I have to get out for a walk every day, and off I go mornings, swaddled like a mummy in parka, wooly hat and scarf, gloves and shearling lined boots.
The day was damp and gray, the thermometer in the kitchen window hovering around freezing. Clouds, lacy fingers of frost and bare trees were everywhere, fallen leaves forlorn and crunchy underfoot, ice rimed puddles anointing every village hollow and street. The north wind's gelid breath made me turn my collar up and my chin inward, bend slightly and try to present a less attractive target to the blowing and blustering all around me. Were those snowflakes I was seeing? Yes indeed, they were the first snowflakes of the season, and that means winter's whirling dance has begun.
On the way home, I stopped to capture a poignant (to me anyway) tableau of oak leaves floating in a pool of icy water in the lane. Indoors a few hours later, I poured a lovely great mug of Darjeeling, uploaded the day's potterings into the computer and was surprised to discover that I had captured myself this time around too - there I was in all my winter clad glory, my reflection falling across the puddle and forming a blurry backdrop to the delicately veined leaves.
With camera in place, a tripod and camera bag slung across my back, I looked for all the world like an alien life form of some kind. It is no' a bad thing to be hanging out with the leaves, and close up I looked like something else entirely, just a soggy shadow.