A just born calf stumbles round his softly mooing mother. He knows he wants something, but doesn’t know what or where to find it yet. There are violets, primroses and forget-me-nots, and the first sharp bite from a fresh baby nettle; in other words, just a perfect April afternoon.
April showers and sun have made primrose, yellow aconited paths. You can spy a bee on a bluebell, then (through gaps in the beech trees) see the Spinnaker Tower on the distant mainland hovering above nearby fields of bright green velvet , all accompanied by the crystal clear notes of the thrush and the lilting skylark’s song.
Pairs of ducks and the ensuing ducklings are adorable and sweet, but the mating process is just too brutal. Give me jackdaws any day with their snuggling up on ramshackle roofs and balconies of ‘Members only’ yacht clubs; or perched on telegraph wires sharing a piece of bread and eating it in unconscious synchronicity.
Golden, blue-skied days have all their obvious charms. But quiet grey days, when a poised heron blends equally into the sea or the sky, beguile even more. They are the perfect foil to the soft and bright greens of willow and chestnut buds that border the beach, with its soft lapping waves carrying the gentle hum of distant ships.
It’s fairly enervating sitting on the top deck of the bus (right at the very front) as it swings round narrow lanes and bumps along pot-holed roads. More bucking bronco than modern horsepower, but with a gallery view of gardens bursting into flower and old walled churchyards overflowing with primroses.