Looking out of my bedroom window onto an icy tidal river is not something I do in Cambridge. I'm doing it here. It's good. Goldeneye, buffleheads on the denim-blue water; a bald eagle sitting like a lump of clay high in a bare oak; a great northern diver doing its submarine-profile cruise along down to the sea. Snow and snow and snow. Damn, it's been a while since I saw a white Christmas. I'm stuffed with pancakes and American bacon, and my legs still ache from a day hawking grey squirrels in deep snow. I love this place, and I love my friends here. Soul-stoking goodness. And there are cookies too. And the promise of a day fishing for smelt out on the ice. I shall wear my new hunting trousers: heavyweight grey wool with a fine, Rupert-Bear red check line. I tested them out on the frozen marsh the other day flying Pete's gyr x peregrine at ducks. Lay down on the ice, and luxuriated in not feeling even a twinge of cold. I am going to die of overheating when I wear them in England, but boy, I need a new pair of hunting trousers. I've killed four pairs out with the gos. These ones will last forever! Mwa ha ha!
Happy Christmas to everyone! Happy happy Christmas! x