An improvisatory, essentially indefensible, randomly configured tragi-comedy
(no great revelations are likely to be accrued from its consumption)
16 December 2011
The promised once-in-a-hundred-year snow storm produced a dusting on the hill opposite and a slightly threatening looking sky. Despite the obvious dangers, I headed off to Ynys-y-fro in the hope of witnessing the predictable exodus of Lapwing and Golden Plover fleeing the ferocious arctic blast. One Teal, one Gadwall, four Shoveler and a nascent runny nose later and I was in Morrisons looking for organic baked beans with which to line the cupboards. You never know, I could be trapped in this not-quite-whiteout, beyond the reach of outside help, you may never hear from me again.
I'm going downstairs for a cuppa,... I may be some time.
Someone at the Highways Agency knows his Gwent birding locations.