Another day at the Hospice but, because we’ve got a few extra visitors this morning, I head down across the racecourse, under the M62 and over the railway at Glass Houghton Station for a coffee break at Junction 32 Freeport.
On my return walk through the strip of woodland alongside the railway, robins and blue tits are singing, a wren investigates the undergrowth and a sulphur-yellow brimstone, the original ‘butter fly’, flies determinedly but erratically, zig-zagging along the scrubby hedgerow in a roughly north-westerly direction,