On the hottest day of the year so far, I take a stroll where both the parched landscape of summer and the greenery of spring sit side by side. On Windmill Hill, above the carpet of trefoil, speedwell, buttercups and clover, small heath butterflies dance restlessly. Wild strawberry flowers twinkle through the grass and a startled rabbit bounds away from me. I take a path diagonally down through warped trunks, onto the old railway.
On the track I realise how dry it’s been. The earth is like concrete, although ferns, wild garlic and minute willow saplings have managed to penetrate it. I see flashes of wings - a dunnock darting in front of me with a caterpillar; a wren cocking her head on a low branch. The shade becomes dappled, then dark, so I can now only hear the birds. A jay cackles as I try to spot it amongst the trees. Only the blackbirds reveal themselves, skittering across the path in their search for food.
Back out in the sunshine I marvel at the swallows’ aerial acrobatics as they wheel around their roostings in some old, unconverted barns. I head down an arrow straight track, through clouds of cow’s parsley. The foliage is abuzz with life: soldier beetles, red tailed bumble bees, lesser spotted crane flies, and the metallic tick of click beetles. A small tortoiseshell darts past my ear; a speckled wood brushes the hedge top.
In the next field there’s a beautifully clear stream. Along its banks, ragged robin and dog daisies make the most of the water, along with the midges which feed the swooping swallows. A brimstone butterfly flashes yellow. Summer.
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