Nobody photographs a ploughed field. It is the least picturesque thing in the countryside, all rows and mud and flat grey sky. I drove past one on a January afternoon and made my companion pull over.
Standing at the edge, you realise the rows are doing something clever: they all run to a single point, so that the whole field becomes an arrow aimed at a lone tree on the horizon. Somebody ploughed that on purpose, or by instinct, and either way it is a small work of art that will be gone by April.
That is the case for off-season travel in a sentence: you get the landscape as it is, not as it is advertised.