I clambered over the stile and hurried across the field. Though cold, the sun was bright; there was barely a whisper of wind. The path took me up a hill of birches. The woods felt open and welcoming in a way that is perhaps only possible in winter when the sleeping, leafless trees share their secrets. I’d received a message from a dedicated birdwatcher in the village that a great white egret had been seen at nearby Gormire Lake. Pleasantly breathless, I reached the top of the hill and began the descent down to the teardrop-shaped tarn.