ABSTRACT
I was walking along the towpath of the Lancaster to Glasson canal in early December. The track was muddy, the trees bare and the skies gunmetal grey. Yet, the canal was teeming with life – two startlingly white swans sailed towards me looking for food, moorhens twitched and scooted along the banks, pairs of mallard shuffled into the safety of the water, and a heron stood silent over it all like a watchful undertaker.
