Through fields of barley

Unlike Theresa May, I have no desire to run through a field of wheat.

Swishing through barley, however, is a different matter. Although being a farmer’s daughter, you’d never catch me trashing crops.

Today I found myself walking along a footpath surrounded by barley swaying in the wind. While the dog joyously leapt through the undergrowth, like Falkor the Luck Dragon in The Never Ending Story, I had my feet firmly planted on the ground.

I walked down to the church and back, deep in barley and surrounded by layer upon layer of green hills punctuated by shapely trees in hedges. I made my way back to the lane along the side of a field planted with maize, just below the Brexit tree which greets me every day on my morning walk. Wales and the West Country are still missing.

And then in the hedge, the tree trunk totem pole still stood, tall and proud to be dead.

It was forty minutes well spent, off the beaten track.

And for a moment, I communed with nature, closing my eyes and just feeling the barley brushing against my fingertips. Granted, I could hear a truck in the distance, an aeroplane overhead and tinnitus in my left ear, but then I caught the sound of the gently swooshing wind and singing birds.

In something of a trance, I looked at the beauty around me. And then down at my feet, where clumps of wild pansy I know as heartsease lined the path through the field of barley.

While cliffs crumbled on the coast at West Bay and hordes descended inland on pick-your-own farms to gather soft fruit, time for me stopped still, at least for a moment.

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