Frost in the valley

I experienced one of the coldest mornings I can remember a few weeks ago, when I rose before dawn and went to the Bristol Avon at Claverton, near Bath.  The sky was clear, the stars were out and there was a hard frost over everything, even on the inside of the car windscreen. Touching anything metal was painful. 

The colours of the river valley were washed out in the dawn and further muted by the covering of frost.  Mine were the first and only footsteps through the white meadow.  The weir at Claverton threw water droplets up into the air and these settled on the willows as a heavy hoar frost, so striking that a group of canal enthusiasts spent an age admiring the scene later that morning.  Willow branches trailing in the slower parts of the river had round fat icicles on them and the water froze into droplets on my braided line and in the rod rings.   Pistol shots rang out from ice settling in the frozen leat and mill pool, as water levels dropped.

The valley at Claverton is steep sided and clad in ancient woodland.  The sun barely reached the river bank by eleven, so preserved the wintery scene until long after the hill tops had thawed.   The woods remained in dark shadow for the entire morning.

I love these hard winter days, so long as I can get into the open air.  Most of the time the river banks are deserted and the veneer of frost transform’s dry vegetation and bare trees, albeit temporarily.