False hope

It was a thoroughly murky middle-England autumn morning when we went out to take the dogs to the groomer; potential blips were taken in Stratford of shop Christmas displays and cake, on a just-in-case basis.

Then as we were driving home I spotted light on the horizon to the south, which seemed to suggest that a better afternoon might be in prospect. CH sweetly pulled the car into a side turning and sat listening to a furious tirade of Jack Russell terrier, while I took my life in my hands walking back along the B439 to the place from which I'd spotted the shot.

Lucky it came out, because by the time we were driving down the Roman Road the promise had been withdrawn. Meon Hill was barely even visible through the murk - always a bad sign - and the rest of the day has been miserable. But are we downhearted?! Well, maybe just a bit...