I realised I haven't been out for ages...I'm not mad keen on summer. Oh, it's ok in a rather obvious way, but it lacks soul - it doesn't twist my heart in the way spring or autumn do. It has it's moments though and you don't have to take a cardi out. After a bit of a pootle, I turned back towards the woods, where someone had been busy...
The road was strewn with bits of bark, so being all thrifty and forward thinking, I collected a basketful to store for kindling. I was trying to remember the common law on gathering, in case some officious keeper came along to stop my peasant gleanings, and I think I was within my rights, being on a public highway.
My real purpose had been to find a quiet spot to contemplate not-much-at-all, so leaving Hercules the bike to guard my hoard, I cut through the woods, dark and leafy but quite dry now. The little stream was all cracked, although only a few months ago it was chuckling away and overgrown with ferns. Further on, the fields beckoned.
Swallows dipped low over the toasting barley and a muscular breeze whisked off the worst of the sun. To my delight there were lots of butterflies about. I am always heartened by butterflies - there are so few nowadays. I imagine a time when they will be as mythological as fairies.
"Mother, tell me about butterflies"
"Oh...butterflies" and the mother smiled, remembering that once, she too believed in butterflies, and her mother had told her the same legend, and her mother before her.
"Well, butterflies were wonderful things...it is said that when they were born, they transformed from funny, ugly worms into the most beautiful winged creatures, who flew about under the sun. They had gorgeous wings, coloured with marvelous patterns, and although they only lived for a few days, it was a life full of happiness and joy. There were so many kinds of butterflies; some were tiny, others quite large."
"As large as me mother?" interrupted the awestruck child. The mother laughed.
"Not quite as large as you darling. But maybe as large as your hand." The child spread her hand, with wondering eyes, imagining one fluttering on her outstretched palm.
"What did they eat, mother?"
"Well, most of them sipped nectar from flowers." The child frowned.
"What are flowers, mother?"
"Ahh...now that will have to wait for another day".
"Oh...butterflies" and the mother smiled, remembering that once, she too believed in butterflies, and her mother had told her the same legend, and her mother before her.
"Well, butterflies were wonderful things...it is said that when they were born, they transformed from funny, ugly worms into the most beautiful winged creatures, who flew about under the sun. They had gorgeous wings, coloured with marvelous patterns, and although they only lived for a few days, it was a life full of happiness and joy. There were so many kinds of butterflies; some were tiny, others quite large."
"As large as me mother?" interrupted the awestruck child. The mother laughed.
"Not quite as large as you darling. But maybe as large as your hand." The child spread her hand, with wondering eyes, imagining one fluttering on her outstretched palm.
"What did they eat, mother?"
"Well, most of them sipped nectar from flowers." The child frowned.
"What are flowers, mother?"
"Ahh...now that will have to wait for another day".
Almost hidden from view, the river Evenlode sleepily slops its way towards Oxford. I found the patch I was looking for - a bend in the river, with the barley fields behind me. Quite alone, and feeling a rare contentment, I watched a city of skinny red beetles commute from stalk to stalk. Crickets were chumming away and turquoise mayflies skipped courtship dances across the sparkling water. Beneath my feet, the whispering willow tree dipped down to tell secrets to the river.
