Now you don't see that everyday

Following a much appreciated tip-off from CC up-country, I jammed in on the edge of a bit of weather movement today. Two hours sitting at an open upstairs window produced: 130 finches, 230 thrushes, 40 Skylark and, largely due to them frequenting the low-slung bottoms of various distant snow clouds, 135 bird sp. And then I went out to play in the white stuff,...

To appreciate this magical view, you'll need to click on the picture to view the larger version. 

The neat rows of Quimcum, a village in which every female inhabitant is named Ann and where, by local decree (and on pain of death), nobody is allowed to set their clocks to the correct time.  Once thought purely fictitious, the product of frostbitten travellers' exhausted minds, the village was finally photographed in 1934 by the Reverend Robert Schlock who unfortunately, despite multiple attempts prior to his untimely death in 1938, failed to relocate it.  Of course, it is now known only to appear following heavy snowfall.  The foremost landmark is the Quimcum Hotel sitting, as it does, in a dominant position overlooking the main crossroads (centre-right); whilst it looks welcoming and, indeed, advertises rooms half board for £39.50, the vast majority of weary excursionists are dismayed when, on arrival, they realise it measures, from ground to gable, just five British inches.