Country diary

Despite unbroken sunshine the temperature refuses to move into positive figures. The day is crisp and cruel, the air sharp as a blade, and with any wind at all it would flay the skin from your face. The snow covering the moor is topped with a brittle covering of ice which glitters coldly in the bright light. There is ice ­everywhere. Outside the front door it is black and transparent, varnishing the stone slabs to a treacherous gleam. Where the regular passage of the car has compressed the snow, two slippery blue lines snake along the track. On a day like this a walk on the frozen moorland doesn't seem a good idea and we drive off to a distant beach, the road a narrow black strap across a white landscape. A mouse dashes across in front of us towards the wall of frozen snow piled up by the roadside. I dare not brake and it isn't going to – without hesitation it launches itself into the air, lands cleanly on the raised surface, and ­skitters onwards. The road follows the shore of the loch, which has frozen hard, its surface a glistening crystalline white. There's no sign of the whooper swans that overwinter here, and I wonder if the far end of the loch is ice-free or if the swans have moved elsewhere in search of open water. I stop, scan the loch through binoculars and find them out on the ice, white against white, a beautiful image of a hard winter's day. They move cautiously, slipping on the glassy surface. We never do make it to the beach. Surprisingly the footpath is easy ­walking, but the steps down on to the sand are hidden beneath an opaque layer of ice like a limestone flow in a show cavern. Instead we take a fast walk along the quiet road, enjoying the exercise, breath steaming, hands cold even in thermal gloves. Ahead of us a flock of fluttering snow buntings leads the way.