Dorset memory 4

A cold winter wind blustered it's way from the north with renewed ferocity, bringing with it an icy blast that froze the trees in the earth, & the small ice-encrusted  branches of the privet hedge tinkled like bells as the frost & snow shivered in its harshness. After the bitter wind torn night, when even the barn owls dare not hunt & stay perched in the rafters of the old tumbled down wooden barn, a pale dawn slowly edges above the horizon & turns the icy snow into sparkling jewels strewn across the garden. A strange white mist hangs in the small valley nearby & echoes the cry of the pheasants as they move about the woodland, where the hard ground has frozen solid & the small stream has iced over in places reducing the running crystal clear water to a mere trickle.
The farm at the edge of the woodland sitting in a dip of a small clearing, is quiet & eerie as the pipes had frozen overnight, & the cows are anxiously waiting to be milked as they mooch around the dung splattered ground. Frost laden snow lay about the yard in measured clumps, & the farmer's dog creeps about their legs like a stealthy fox emerging from a hedgerow before slinking off across a field. The dog barks once or twice as the cows plod slowly toward the milking parlour after the farmer had seen to the pipes, & the milking machine starts humming again as the winter sun moves lazily across the sky.
The fields are frozen when walking down the hill toward the woodland, the mist still clinging to the day, hovering lightly above the hardened clods that are mainly covered with a crunchy carpet of whitened ice-capped snow. Footprints follow my long shadow down the hill, sinking into the snow with each step, before approaching a small stile that sits in the fencing not far from a lichen covered wooden gate. The path through rows of pine in the woods, leads down along a winding gravelly section, but puddled & icy in places, then stretches down & across a stream that is almost still with ice, the long strands of ivy hanging from the trees above wave gently in a slight breeze above it. The chestnut trees on the slope of a hill, stand silent as further up along a twisting track, another gateway leads on to where the village is tucked under winter's hold, the church wrapped in the soft swirling mist & the village shop is gripped from the night's encounter with seasonal offerings.