April in the Dorset countryside

Ribbons of mist lie along the valleys this morning and the sky above is a brilliant blue.

In the wood, the bluebells are popping up their heads to say hello. There is a large fir tree across the path, its bowl of roots looking rather ungainly and uncomfortable. It’s as if the tree has fallen over with its dress up over its head. There is a large, watery crater below.

We can’t climb over the trunk  so we make a detour near the badger setts. The dog bounces on and then we’re out in the field and out of the shadows to take in the view. I drink it in. It is youth dew, this nature, this elixir of life.

In the fields beyond, tractors trundling with machinery behind them create a constant soundtrack. A raven caws as sheep bleat in the next-door field so I put the dog on the lead to avoid temptation.

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