Mr. Butshesagirl and I went for a walk this morning to get some fresh air and some perspective. We chose a circular walk taking in Muswell Hill (no, not the one in London) — from the top you have a view over two counties; Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire.
It turned out to be much muddier underfoot than we'd anticipated. Every step was accompanied by the schplock of mud reluctantly releasing wellington boot. I'm fond of woods in winter — their starkness has a beauty of its own. In the woods, clumps of grass seemed supernaturally green. I wasn't sure if they were really that colour, or if my eyes were seeking out and accentuating colour in the drab of winter. There were also surprising pockets of snow still persisting in places, nestling in hollows like sheep.
At the top of the hill we were rewarded with an incredible view. Up with the birds, crows and a red kite soared around, swooping and tumbling in the wind.
All went well until the very last stile. Stiles are a problem for me, as they are rarely built with someone with of my limited inside leg in mind. My right foot slipped off the step as I clambered over, my left foot was trapped under the opposite step, and my body weight pulled my thigh against the top bar. It's lucky my bones are strong, or my femur might have snapped like a stick broken across someone's leg. Instead, I have a huge bruise on my inside thigh. Stupid stiles.