The trees were still looking grey and cold, but as we approached the village, there were plenty of nodding daffodils to remind us that the season really is finally changing. It was a fairly warm day and as we passed the church, there was a man on the edge of the graveyard (well wrapped up) practising his saxophone, gentle, mournful notes drifting over the wall.
Back in open countryside and the fields are lined with delicate blackthorn blossom, frothing the hedgerow like clustered stars against a night sky.
Despite the many weeks of rain this year - the wettest in the Midlands since records began - the fields are already vibrant and lush with new growth.
Around a corner and suddenly there, in the distance, towards Church Stretton, lie the long, low shapes of Ca’er Caradoc and the Lawley, misty blue against a clear sky.
Spinning along in the sunshine, cooled by an Easterly breeze and passing dear little cottages nestling on edge of narrow, hedge lined lanes.
And inevitably, another hill, which we took slowly with a fair amount of pedal assist from No.6’s battery.
Past the creepy pond, which is always covered in green slime and surrounded by half dead trees.
And hooray for a big downhill stretch, with little yellow celandines lining the road cheerfully and trees flushed pale green with emerging leaves.
It had been nearly seven miles and we were in sight of home - a tiny, beloved cream speck on the horizon, where in less than ten minutes I would be in the kitchen putting the kettle on and No.6 will be having his battery recharged.
