Sometimes, though, even November relents, and the sky reverts to its forgotten blue.

I open the stable door and release Ruby, the Fell pony, who has been confined to quarters, not because her furry barrel body is unable to stand the weather, but because the ground is so wet that her hooves would mash good turf to a black pulp. She emerges politely enough, but heads up the yard at a steam-train trot, to reappear head-between-knees, doing handstands, emitting squeaks and snorts of pure excitement. She skates down the tarmac, bucks to a stop, turns in the air with a flurry of mane, and trots off again. I'm glad I didn't let her out onto the pasture.

After an hour or two of grazing, her claustrophobia has eased considerably and it's time to think of going for a drive to enjoy the warmth of the afternoon. Out with the harness and carriage. The brassware is dulled from lack of use, the wheels crusted with mud that I haven't had a dry day to clean off but I'm not going to waste the short winter afternoon on cleaning. It's collar on, straps buckled, and away. Ruby is as keen as I am to explore our lonely roads; the four walls of her stable must bore her as much as work tasks bore me.

Our neighbours too are making the most of the sunshine. The sailing instructor is unloading dinghies from his trailer and stowing them away for winter. A farmer has stoked his kitchen fire before he goes out on the quad bike, and the jet of white smoke from the chimney rises straight up in the still air. His trailer carries a barking dog and a plastic sack of feed for the sheep. Another is taking his tractor to the pumps to refuel; indicator blinking, disregarded, he's so busy "farming his neighbour's land" over the wall that he only sees us at the last moment, and has to pull into a gateway to let us by. Ruby, affecting to worry about the tractor's growling, arches her neck and lifts her feet high as she trots past: "See how active I am, you won't catch me, so don't even try."

Her unshod feet clop sharply on the tarmac, squelch over the grass verges, occasionally click when a stone is trapped in a cleft of her hoof then flicked loose again to rattle along the road. Once out of the village, the silence of open country, which is not silence but noise diminished by distance, sweeps round us and soothes us. I can hear the river churning, down at the bottom of the valley. A silver and red express gallops southward down the long rail embankment; a goods train, containers chained to its back, rumbles north with a steadier beat. The motorway hums faintly, constantly, in the background. Ruby's ears flick to and fro, absorbing every sound.

With the winter sun shining level across washed fields, things that were invisible in summer declare themselves once more. The rig-and-furrow of ancient ploughland stands out like ribs of corduroy. Lichens glow on the stones in circles of ghostly grey or acid green. Milky cascades of water from every field miraculously blend into a silky brown flow over the river's bedrock, clear and deceptively innocent, its only threat a creamy standing wave below each boulder. A burgundy-purple haze of little twigs crowns the silver birches on its banks, where charming pinky-grey fluffballs flutter nimbly, their prim black-and-white tail-feathers identifying them as long-tailed tits.

Ruby's sweating now through her thick winter fur, so we walk most of the way home, apart from the two hills where she prefers to trot. We power up out of the deepening shadows of the riverside, onto the open moor, back into the low, coppery afternoon light. A cock-pheasant races across a field, to join the sheep nibbling their trickled line of feed. If he's the one who has pecked my cabbages into lace and my broccoli into naked parasols, I'll look forward to having him on a platter at Christmas.

Back in the yard, the unharnessing follows a set routine. Ruby waits until only her collar remains, then tries, as always, to flip it off for herself. I give her a hand, and she works with me, lowering her neck, relaxing her throat so I can turn the collar easily and lift it over her head. She waits till I've stepped back, shakes herself thunderously then whickers to ask for her reward, her scoop of mixed grain and carrots.

Today's sunshine is unlikely to be repeated, so while she's munching, I wheel the carriage back under cover.

I take the risk of turning Ruby out into one of the empty fields, and it pays off; she's worked out her earlier need to bucket around, stomping holes in the grassland. I have a cup of coffee and a scone, and an hour later, when I go out into the dusk to call her, Ruby is still grazing peacefully within twenty yards of the gate.

As I clip the rope to her headcollar, and lead her back into the yard, the moon is rising, pale, over the edge of the hill. It looks full and contented, and so do we.