It’s that time of year again up on Lewesdon.
You can see why I call it Bluebell Hill.
We’re up bright and early. The sun already seems high in the sky but, still, the curtains are closed. Children are in a deep sleep before getting up for school although the cockerel has been crowing for some time inside his shed, shrieking: ‘Let me out, let me out.’
The grass is lush and long, enjoying its last days of freedom before the farmer comes along and cuts it for animal feed. There are ravens in the middle wood and curious cattle grazing in the morning sunshine.
Up on the hill, there’s no-one about but us, the beech trees and the bluebells. We crunch through paths of last year’s leaves and beech nuts, under natural arches – nature’s own cathedral – and glimpses of stained-glass views through the branches.
It’s a special spot. Especially now that May is here.