The wind turned east, and the world made of mud and rain now glitters under ice. On Kinderlow the moonscape of black peat has turned to stone, at one with the weird lumpen rocks that litter the edge and whet the kniving wind ... or it would be as wild and witchy as this were it not for the dozens of brightly clad figures yomping across it. I was trying a route for my Buxton Ramblers walk next month, but the one I tried involved hopping and scrambling down the very rough path from Cluther Rocks, which has beautiful views but knackers your knees so badly that I decided I'd be better doing the circuit the other way round.
The independent examiner's report on the PNFS fiasco isn't now expected until 25 January. I have been looking out for it it since Christmas and Dave now tells me not to be so impatient and bad-tempered over it; he sighs 'it won't make any difference, whatever it says'. But he is the one who has been seething for weeks, and fretting 'what shall I do if they say this? what shall I do if they say that?' until all I can say is 'I don't know!' and scurry away - so the whole business is making both of us feel frayed and sound ratty.
The hens are foolishly moulting, and consequently cold and grumpy. At night all three cram into the one nesting box, so at least the one on the bottom must be toasty warm. Their water dispenser froze overnight, and they appreciated having it refilled it with hot water this morning - a pot of tea and bowl of porridge would probably have gone down a treat as well.
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