Not Porty People or Places

Yesterday's windchill was replaced by hints of spring. When the mist cleared, the Cotswold hedgerows were full of the sound of birdsong. We heard woodpeckers. We saw long tailed tits. We watched circling hawks.

Our morning walk was like one, back in time, as my blip show. This scene is little changed in hundreds of years in and around the village of Gretton - in exhaust earshot of the famous Prescott Hill Climb - a familiar haunt of my old friend, C.

In the afternoon, we had more quality time with our grandsons, their parents and our youngest son, before he headed back to London.

The evening has been spent trying to get a mobile signal in this part of the Cotswolds which is only five miles from the world famous Cheltenham Gold Cup Race Course but, outside that famous Race Week, when mobile technology is wheeled in, seems almost impossible!