....and ways be foul...

When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit;
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.


W Shakespeare:   Love's labour's lost.

Winter is probably done!   There will be no more icicles hanging by the wall, and there are plenty of signs of Spring.   But after all the rain of these last months, I suspect that ways will be foul right into the summer months.

In extra:   The Molecatcher has been.   I counted 48 attached to the fence.   This is done so that the farmer can count heads as it were, and the local corbies will enjoy the treat.    At around £4 per mole, it's fairly lucrative work.