Yellow furze on the heath: Country diary 100 years ago

Originally published in the Manchester Guardian on 9 December 1916

Surrey, December 7
Cattle coming back slowly to the homestead in the mist of early afternoon pause to browse among the clumps of furze which stud the heath all over the top of the down. These furze bushes are well out in yellow bloom; it makes almost the only charm of colour left us here. The younger cows, nosing about, tear off the budding shoots, taking little account of the prickly stems, which are not very stiff as yet. Cattle feeding in this way can, as it were, lick up whole mouthfuls at a time or select only the smaller dainties with that wonderful instrument their tongue. Reaching the stable they are more disdainful, tossing out the sour hay from the manger, sniffing over the mangold, and trampling couch grass bedding underfoot. But, dark as it may be, they recognise you when you approach with a handful of new bran.

The frost has been hard enough to make the higher land fit for carting manure over, and not too hard to stop the plough where hands have been available to drive a furrow on our stiff marl clays. These cut now almost like a cheese, hard at the outer rind and mellow where the point of the share drives in. Withal, there is more company in the birds. They are tame while the frost pinches, and are busy in their separate, small parties about the barns. A pair of blackbirds run, flirting their tails and pecking almost everywhere, seemingly regardless of whether there is anything to pick up or not. But it is very difficult to tell what is in the mind - or the eye - of a bird.