Woke about 6, to hear a tremendous storm breaking against the house, wind roaring, hailstones battering the windows. I got up at 7, and found another fall of snow, and a driving blizzard from the S.E. The wind died down, and although there was some rain until eleven it faired a little. We all walked over to Holly Lodge, as the roads were too bad for horses.
The little dogs came as well, and caught a rabbit on Goddard’s land. Parry killed it with his stick. It squeaked only once. I was sorry to see it killed, but I liked the idea of our poaching it, on a Sunday too.
We walked past a little farm called Riddlesdale, now forlorn and empty. It is situated at the end of a long track, far from any road or other buildings, but unfortunately not more than a mile from Bromley Pylons. I should like to live in a place like that.
Had a very pleasant lunch at Frank Girling's house, in a room hung with pictures by Rushbury and Munnings. Girling talked about the War Agricultural affairs. His grasp of the principles of farming politics is very sound, but he knows little of what actually goes on in the District Offices and at Writtle.
This evening writing journal, a chapter of “The Camchester Chronicle”, notes on recent history of the Museum, etc. Very cosy in my room, with a roaring fire. I love my fire, but I can't help poking it about like an old woman, to see if I can make it burn a bit brighter.