Spoonhill

I start under chestnuts’ spreading candelabras, through long, lush grass dotted with ladies smock. A cuckoo competes with a skylark. The horizon gleams rape-yellow. At my feet the crop is only just through, but the hedge growth provides abundant cover for blackbirds, finches, robins. The air is thick with St Mark’s flies, their legs drooping lazily. Two ducks and several pigeons break cover, startling me as much as I’ve startled them. Leaving the farmland, I head down towards Devil's Dingle. Celandines, buttercups and dandelions gild the knee high grass. But the real delights are the darkly rich English bluebells in the wood edge. On the skyline, pale poplars contrast with deep coloured pines. And everywhere there’s birdsong. back along the lane, I marvel at the true joy of this walk, the hedgerow, thick with vibrant growth: field maple, elder, holly, sloe, honeysuckle, hawthorn. Frothing below is a mass of flowers: greater and lesser stitchwort, vetch, yellow archangel, red campion, cow parsley. And birds: yellowhammers and goldfinches dart, exotically bright amongst the greens. And peace.