The snow has gone. It’s largely melted away, helped by the milder temperatures and steady rain of the last few days.
The croft has turned into a waterworld.
The grass and rushes are sodden underfoot, the soil retaining the water like a giant sponge. Footpaths down the hill have turned into opportunistic streams. The air is saturated and we’re viewing everything through a thin veil of water droplets.
The tree boughs are dripping with lichen and rain, their bare branches dark and wet against the grey skies.
The little burn at the top of the croft is in full spate, swollen with the snow melt and the days of heavy rain. It’s transformed from a sedate trickle into a rushing, powerful force, swirling and racing to meet the main stream which tumbles down the hill on our western boundary.
Water defines our world here on the croft.
