In the Bleak Midwinter.

I shouldn’t have mentioned the retreat from Moscow. The coincidence of similarities was all too evident tonight. The Shire is bleak and snowbound, with an eye-watering wind whispering replies to the grunts of my footfalls on ice-encrusted snow. I was, at least, grateful that I didn’t have dysentery.

I followed a set of fresh footprints when I walked down the lane. They were about the same size as mine, and I wondered who’d made them. Who would be crazy enough to go out walking on such an inhospitable night as this?

Apart from a dog fox, that is. I heard one barking close by, just as I set foot on my path when I got home. I turned around and saw him break cover a few yards away. His dark, shaggy shape watched me for a few moments, and then trotted on. I hope his coat was warmer than mine.