Friday, February 3

Ditchling Beacon

At the very top of the steep green giant that is Ditchling Beacon, a small herd of cattle grazed idly beside the frozen dew pond, apparently impervious to the biting wind whistling across the crest of the hill. The sun shone wanly with slightly grey light so the rolls of grass looked like an old army surplus woollen blanket thrown carelessly down, the folds left crumpled and creased.

I sat in the fuggy warmth of the car gazing at the villages strewn along the valley below and enjoyed a short pause in my busy day.

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