Comins Coch, Ceredigion: Another tree has fallen in the high winds since the new year, leaving a gap like a broken tooth Fresh molehills in the pasture ‘In the top corner of the field by the old quarry, chains of fresh molehills swirl across the pasture.’ Photograph: John Gilbey/John Gilbey 2022 John Gilbey @John_Gilbey Mon 7 Feb 2022 05.30 GMT 4 In the crown of the tall beech tree at the corner of the lane, two pairs of rooks are perching close together. While not adding much warmth, the last of the afternoon sun, as it creeps beneath the western bank of cloud, at least brings some colour to their plumage and the bare branches around them. The main rookery is just over a mile away – a noisy, crowded roost in a collection of pines – and in recent years I have noticed a number of rooks apparently scouting for other accommodation. From an adjacent tree, a much smaller jackdaw sits above last year’s nest, regarding the newcomers without recognisable enthusiasm. The hollow way through which the lane rises across the hillside is dank and edged with the gurgling of field drains emptying slowly into the stream. The colours here are muted, bare soil and wet leaf litter dominate the palette, while a few bright ivy leaves stand out where they rise against lichen-covered trunks. Another tree has fallen in the high winds since the new year – folding across the path and leaving a gap in the field boundary like a broken tooth. A skeletal tree in the old quarry. ‘Both oak and ash stand skeletal against a sky softened by cloud and encroaching mist.’ Photograph: John Gilbey In the top corner of the field by the old quarry, chains of fresh molehills swirl across the pasture – made during the creation of the shallow burrows into which their earthworm prey will fall. Worm activity is temperature dependent, so perhaps the moles are getting a good harvest in this warm winter. No signs of early spring have appeared yet in the quarry, even where the trees are partly sheltered from the prevailing westerly wind by the steep back wall. Both oak and ash stand skeletal against a sky softened by cloud and encroaching mist. As quickly as it had emerged, the sun slides behind another bank of cloud and the temperature drops markedly. As the light fades, the sky turns the same colour as the hammered lead cap of the gatepost by the stile. I clamber over the cold, wet wood with exaggerated caution, and blackbirds begin their evening calls as I regain the lane. Country Diary is on Twitter at @gdncountrydiary