The Marches, Shropshire: The fields have turned white and the fieldfares have arrived, with their Nordic dialects and a hunger for berries

I had to cut my way out of the garden this morning. Last night’s snow, a dollop of wet confection, was too heavy for a liquidambar, full of leaf in glorious gold, red and purple. Branches snapped and folded into an impenetrable tangle: a drastic winter pruning and a reminder of how vulnerable trees are to sudden snowfall.

The flakes were more dove than goose down, but still falling seriously on Brogyntyn Park. It was transformed. The white pages that covered the grass were written on by joyfully anarchic footprints of early wanderers and their dogs, transgressing erased paths. Someone had made a snowman and snowdog. The lime avenue, arching and leafless, created a tunnel leading to a white glow like an out-of-body experience.