I was meant to be in London, but instead I was standing on a hillside in the Goyt, watching a buzzard glide and soar just above the treetops of the wood. It was early afternoon and in the valley out of the chilly wind it felt like summer. The sun was shinning, there was even a faint shimmering heat haze. As I watched the buzzard, it began to climb above the trees, seeking out the thermals, effortlessly turning in tight circles with just an occasional flap of its large wings and going ever upwards. Every so often it would stop rising and fly in larger circles, its head hung down, searching for any movement below, before seeking out the warm rising air to climb higher. Within minutes it was a faint speck, and I moved on lifted by what I had seen and as always amazed at the sheer effortlessness of it all. I was glad I was on the hillside London would wait until tomorrow.