We have found a new walk, almost on our doorstep. My cold (not helped by getting caught in a shower) needed a final nudge to send it on its way. It's given us a whole new aspect of our village, somewhere over there, in the middle of the greenery. It was a blowy day, and a fledgling bird of prey was testing its wings. Andy thought it was a kestrel as it was quite small and had a similar flight pattern. I thought it was a buzzard, because of the markings and lack of grey hood on it's head. We Googled images and emerged even more confused. Any expert opinion (as opposed to our amateur guesswork) is most welcome.
Naturally there had to be a picnic. And a picnic needs a view. Ideally there should be fizzy pop, boiled eggs, Mr Kipling cakes, and rolls or sandwiches. We were greedy and had sausage rolls as well. Don't forget the Maldon sea salt for the eggs. (Andy's knee is not compulsory).
If it seems as if I spend a lot of time going out for walks - well yes, I do. And we are lucky to have so many on our doorstep. My life - in the summer - is pretty much compiled of needle felting, walks, watching cricket matches and little domestic things, such as cooking and tending our veg patch. In the winter it is the same, but without the cricket or the veg patch. Much of this is from choice, but I have no disposable income, and all of these things are free or cheap. It is quiet, but it suits me; it makes up for the first twenty four years of my life, which were - well, not exactly ideal, by a long chalk. Some people see their childhood and youth as a golden time in which they had their happiest time. I was not so lucky, so I am very appreciative of what I have now, and bless every day in which I have Andy and the small things of life. Which are not so small really.
Now the winter is finally over, once or twice a week we escape with a picnic - I cannot think of many other things I'd rather do than set off with Andy, a simple bundle of food, the open road and the prospect of a few miles ahead; especially in May, when the lanes are drifting with Queen Anne's Lace and the mild wind is scented with oilseed rape.
The weather is changeable and though we may set off in bright sunshine, dark clouds bounce across from the West, threatening rain. The new leafage glows against the grey skies - that is the joy of an English spring; the moist, fresh, greeness which never fails to fill me with hope and happiness.
As we were tramping the edges of the fields this week, we spotted...
Can you see it? No? Come closer. I can see it, because I know where it is - hidden tightly - there's the clue.
Ah, he's been rumbled - there he goes!
Mr Hare, you are a shy fellow - but now we know exactly where you are!
Choosing the right picnic spot depends on the mood of the weather. Sometimes it is best just to find a sheltered spot and watch the rain clouds roll in. There must be good eggs, and a thermos of watery hot chocolate which tastes ever-so-slightly of mildew.
We shared our breadcrumbs with an excited ant, who had never seen such riches in his microcosmic world. He staggered off, his little back laden with this wonderful new bounty. Somewhere below the earth, in a patch of West Oxfordshire, a new religion has been born. Centred around bread.
Turning the circle of our walk, we headed into the reserve. It is a bumper bluebell year in the UK - our woods are carpeted with acres of them stretching out of eye's reach. And I would hate to be the only British blogger not to show a picture of them.
The woodlands never sound so pretty as in Spring, when the birds are singing their hearts out and the cuckoo is doing what all respectable cuckoos should do.
After a good four hours, it's home to a small queue of impatient geese, demanding crowns. This mega order is almost done and they go off for their photoshoot next Friday. There are little gangs of animals dotted around the studio, waiting to be packed. At times I feel as if they are plotting something.
