Deep midwinter on the Yare

Over the past few days as I wrap-up with ever more layers to defeat the cold, I've been trying to encourage myself that the month of least daylight is now over and that every day takes us closer to spring. However, as I unload the dogs out of the back of the car onto the ice rink that is a supermarket car park, I wonder who I'm trying to kid.

Nevertheless, we've been in the car for a couple of hours, delivering copies of Tales from Iceni Territory to Bittern Books to keep them stocked up for the year to come and all three of us are in need of some exercise.

I choose a path next to the old bridge over the Yare between Eaton village and Cringleford on the western outskirts of Norwich, intending to head north along the bank. I'm old enough to remember the time when this ancient bridge carried all the traffic into the city coming up the old Roman road from London and when as a single track crossing, it created long hold-ups in both directions.

We pass under the concrete piers of the modern replacement which spans the river valley towering over both the old bridge and the water mill that sits alongside it. Whilst the new construction relieved Eaton village of all the London traffic, a thing of beauty it isn't, adorned only by the obligatory rattle can efforts of the graffiti artists.

With a weir by the mill, the water flows slowly here, allowing ice to form along the margins, infiltrating the river from the reeds along the bank. A pair of mute swans and two pairs of mallard float quietly mid stream, keeping a wary eye on the terriers, who manage an uncharitable bark, firstly because they consider all birds as fair game for a volley of sound and secondly because they appear to rather like the echo from the underpass, which amplifies their efforts.

The swans are not remotely concerned by small dogs and we move on along the frozen path, surveying the gardens of large houses falling down the slope of the western bank of the river and away to our right, taking in the views of the water meadows of the river flood plain. Whilst Eaton village was my home as a child, walking this path in winter feels like a new discovery as it follows the river along the western margin of the fine city towards the lake and parkland surrounding the University of East Anglia.

In spite of the cold, a few people are out. A cheerful couple of men hold out a hand to Boomer, who thinks a biscuit might be on offer. He's out of luck. I hold Gracie back just in case she takes offence. A robin puffed-up against the sub-zero temperature bobs along through the iced brambles along the side of the path.

Apart from the crunch of my shoes on the hard packed snow, all is quiet. Not a breath of wind to disturb the fridge-like atmosphere amongst the dull, flat winter light. It's been a brief interlude before we get on the road back to Cambridgeshire and the borderland of Iceni territory. But as the days get longer and the temperatures rise, we'll come back to explore this way again.