Cold

The deer are lying out in the fallow field . They've formed a sort of uneven circle with a couple of small ones in the centre and the adults on the outside keeping guard. This is the first time I've ever seen them lying down. Perhaps the smaller ones in the centre of the circle are newborns ? In France they would have attracted the attention of the local hunters. Here, they seem to be accepted and ignored. In our six months in the 'last wee house before Denmark'  I've never seen anyone with a shotgun or heard anyone shooting. This lack of hunters may also explain why the surrounding fields are brimmed full of wild pheasants. A particularly resplendent male watches us from his vantage point on the stone wall by the gate pier. Sophie barks. The pheasant ignores her.

Some light snow overnight which leaves a band of white along the dunes but by the time we're out and about the sky is bright.

Sophie discovers that scents are very different when it's cold. Our progress along the beach is glacial - both figuratively and metaphorically. This is a sniff every blade of grass morning.

Yesterday Sophie has the fur on her chest trimmed. It's still long ( and warm ) but not long enough to pick up every scrap of detritus on the beach.

In town crew and extras for the crowd scenes are being given a run down on what's expected of them. Not all appear to be enthused at having to get up early.

After a trip to the good coffee cafe ( where Sophie is given a piece of shortbread ) we return home to warm up. The worst of the 'snowmageddon' storm seems to have hit a couple of hundred miles further south. That's fine by me.

Did Manhattan really look like this in the 30's ? https://twitter.com/pushtheneedle/status/1633613852255604736