The Drifters

There are partridges under there somewhere
There are partridges under there somewhere

The snow which was promised has arrived in full swing. We’ve had about a foot so far, but incessant winds have blown it all over the place so that it’s three or four feet deep at the backs of the dykes. Some of the corries up on the hill have filled with snow and vanished altogether, and travelling further afield than the wood shed is not an option. There’s none of the eerie silence of winter snow – just a caustic roar which rumbles on and on without ever seeming to slow down. I wonder if half the snow which is currently flying horizontally past my window is actually coming off the hill behind the house rather than out of the clouds.

The partridge laying pens had almost vanished by the time I got up this morning, and it wasn’t easy to find them amongst the hulking mounds of white powder. The keeper on next door’s estate came over and we both agreed that the day was more or less a write-off. Having defrosted the partridges’ water and emptied the dog, the day has now become a matter of keeping the stove full of wood and throwing bread crusts out of the window for the chaffinches.


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