Sunday morning .

Out of the front gate and left along the lane. The clouds low - snow is forecast for tonight . A young calf has escaped from the safety of the barn and is standing , eyes wide, on the grass verge by the gate . It watches the two of us as we zig zag past . The lure of the rich grass overcoming fear .

We stop by the stream. On the other bank, barely ten feet away, a woodpecker works at a lichened stump. His black and white body crowned by a crimson plume. Only nature, or a two year old boy, capable of dreaming up a colour scheme this improbable.

Everywhere around scores of finches; green, blue,yellow, gold. Grubbing on the ground,climbing tree trunks, jostling noisily in the branches. A parliament of colour and movement .The males chests puffed out in bravado, the females glorying in a new day. The old fellows Sunday morning walk suddenly a journey of joy.

Wilf can't see but he listens. Head raised to sniff the air. Sensing the deer behind the elder copse. To the murmur of water and birdsong he falls asleep. Head resting contentedly on paws. Grateful owners of old dogs know that some walks are meant to be remembered long after they're done .