Somewhere, from a nearby tree, a Thrush was singing. It has stopped now but other voices have joined the chorus (so I get up). A Jackdaw barks directions to his comrades, who echo in acceptance and they depart on their day’s mission. Starlings gather on a phone line, chattering perhaps about the noisy neighbourhood Oystercatcher or (as I attach my small stove to a gas canister, strike a match and hear) the piercing shrieks of, wildest of wild, Swifts tearing up the clean, blue sky.
Mist still clings to the far hills, (I position my chair just out of the barn’s shadow and gaze at it) giving the valley a fuzzy, woolly coat and Sheep dutifully graze an already entirely sunlit field. Dewy webs bejewel the wire fence.
(My kettle starts to boil and I start to pour, shaking off) damp clumps, recently mowed. Too early for Bees on clover or too late? Cuttings pock-mark the camping field but do not interrupt a mother Swallow as she darts fast and low, rising and falling with each subtle contour, above the well-shorn grass. All waking Flies must beware her (although seem quite oblivious to my sprayed-on ‘natural insect repellent’ as I sip my freshly cooling coffee from a metal mug), one of life’s finest treasures. Free, with wings like a mountain stream, yet at home here in the valley, she peaks over the Spiders’ sparkly traps and continues her hunt in the sheepfield.