The light is subdued but the sun is trying to break through the lumpy grey clouds. There are vague shadows.

A hard frost. The pigeons wandering through the sparkling white grass, disconsolately pecking at the sharp little crystals. The wagtails seem to be enjoying the novelty bouncing up and down in the rime.

The bright light throws dark barcodes of shadows on the path.

A bitterly cold night but the sun bursts up into the palest, almost colourless, cloudless skies. The shadows are long. The sea sighs gently and gulls are wailing softly out on the bay.

The chilly air lasts all day and even though the sun manages shine brightly from time to time, as soon as it is covered by the thin, high cloud it loses its power.

A motor boat and jetski race each other across the bay leaving two scratchy white wakes.

The clouds are still grey and woolly but allowing a few more glimpses of the sun and the lunch time readers and texters seem to be a little more relaxed.

Occasionally a sliver of polished platinum slices across the waves out in the bay where the sun edges through.

The sun slides in and out from behind big pillows of cloud. When it is out, it casts dark shadows and it is warm enough for those sitting out reading on the benches.

A woman in a woolly hat is balancing a big drawing pad on the cliff top rail. The wind is determined to disrupt her work.

Long streaks and raggedy mackerel bubbles of grey cloud hide the sun.

The sky like a rumpled grey duvet. The sun, tousled haired trying to pull itself out of bed but not succeeding.

The view through the gorse that reveals the little ships in the bay or the path dropping away out of sight that might give rise to some stranger narrative.

The world is described by an impenetrable sort of trigonometry.

A cutting wind from the north east means the temperature plummets as soon as the sun disappears behind smears of slate coloured clouds.

A pair of crows have taken the opportunity to claim the high ground and strut about imperiously.

A party of gulls swirl overhead chattering amonst themselves as if undecided about what to do with the day. But later they carry on swirling as they wait for Mick the seagull man under a fingernail of a day old moon in a sunset sky.

The three cornered leeks are carpeting the low growing edges of the woodland. Big bunches were gathered last night for use in special recipes for the Chinese New Year. Welcome to the Year of the Rabbit.

Early morning walkers cross the sun’s path, moving in and out of the mist ghost-like, almost transparent.

It is the day for a walk, or to stand and stare at the scene.