The fertile fields of May, that sunlight bouncing on bright green grass and trees adorned with their brand-new frocks. The Hawthornes are still in their maiden dress, but the blossoms are heavy now, ready to shed for summer’s gown.
A family of texel sheep curiously watch as we meet on our evening stroll. The blue above getting stronger in colour as is the green below.
High above Whitewell, Bowland is as young on this May evening as it is old. The dry-stone walls are crisp in the gentler light, the hills in the distance softer, mellowed, as if they too returned to their carefree youth.
Cow’s lips adorn the hedges, the surest sign of approaching summer. The filigree of dainty white blossoms reminiscent of linen camisoles and lace parasols catching the sun above barefeet steps on freshly mown grass. And as the sun slowly sets, caressing the valley and each tiny midget within, a promise is made with the longer lasting light, that all is renewed