I arrived at Wraysbury with nobody else about, the morning crisp and cold but lovely in the sunshine with no wind.

A dozen Goldeneye were calling their strange growling and trumpeting song, the males chasing about and displaying, throwing their heads back to call and signal. One or two females looked on, from a little distance.

A few Pochard and Great Crested Grebes made up most of the rest of the lake birds, apart from Tufted Ducks and a Black-Headed Gull or two.

The path had been trodden by Muntjac, large and small, not much earlier.

A Song Thrush sang, still a little hesitantly: it’s still Winter.

A small party of Redwings fluttered about in the bushes.

Over Hythe End, a pair of Red Kites circled and drifted along. A Pied Wagtail, the Chiswick bird (which is how its call sounds) sat on a gable end as I ended my walk.