Blithe spirits

I have the babble of a stream on my right which seems to have woken the birds - a jay cackles, a song thrush drops to the ground by a bed of wild garlic and a single golden saxifrage, a raven cronks and blue tits chatter nervously in the hedge. I see some weary snowdrops, silently thankful that winter has loosened its grip, and then turn my attention to the hill ahead.  The taller cousin of Wenlock Edge takes you up towards Bourton Westwood at around 258m. The far off song of skylarks teases me as I climb. I challenge myself not to look at the view until I reach the top.

            North, the last of the snow is retreating on Caer Caradoc, but opposite, the softly folding south Shropshire landscape - Spoonhill, Corve Dale, Aston Hills and the imperious Clee – whispers of spring. Now I see as well as hear the skylarks, their soaring flight and trilling song both noticeable against the cold wind. Is it the words of the poets, or their increasing rarity, or simply their illusiveness? I don’t know, but there’s something magical and ethereal about skylarks which have taken this walk out of the ordinary.