A dense frost nibbles at the toes of morning, invisible crystals dance in the pale wind and scratch your throat. At the foot of the walk is a stone bird bath, a simple roman column, atop, a rink, a drink kept secret by a cold crust. A blue tit encircles the rim, puzzling over the whereabouts of today’s breakfast tipple. You edge closer, not wishing to scare the thing — she sees you and flits to the ivy. You break the thick surface of the pool with a pebble.