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'10 February. The Peregrine flew north across the valley. He was half miles away, but I could see the brown and black of his wings, the shining gold of his back. The pale cream of his tail coverts looked like a band of straw twisted across the base of his tail. Thinking he'd return downwind, I went into fields with the river to watch for him. I stood in the lee of the hawthorn hedge, looking through it on the north, sheltered in the bitter wind'