Oh, to be in England...

Spring arrived in earnest today. The sun shone as powerfully as it should in late spring, the air was pleasantly warm, and the merest zephyr stroked a hint of faint movement into the blades of grass. Having got a lot of jobs under my belt, I went for a belated walk up the lane late in the afternoon.

The first thing that struck me was how lucky we are in Britain to have such a profusion of grasses and wild flowers growing on the verges beneath the hedgerows, and painting them a multitude of pinks, greens, blues, whites and yellows. Coming after a lot of rain recently, they look even richer and more vibrant this year than usual.

I looked over to my right and saw that one of the local farmers has apparently set aside two of his fields, and so the wild plants are starting to show there, too. That means they’re beginning to take on the appearance of those beautiful, old fashioned hay meadows that all but disappeared in the post-war drive for intensive production.

I didn’t walk far. I cut through the little wood at the top of the lane, walked past the old pheasant-rearing enclosures, and came out into the field where the sheep were grazing last week. They’d been moved to a field further down the lane, so the gate was off and the field was empty. There was a grass roller lying by the hedge, and grass rollers make excellent seats, so I sat on it and perused the view.

It stretches for many miles to the Trent Valley and beyond. Mile upon mile of fields, hedgerows, single trees and copses, gently lit by the afternoon sun, gently growing at nature’s own pace, and gently stirred by the lightest of breezes. Most of the trees are now fully clad in their spring livery of fresh, light green leaves, and the air carried that subtle but provocative scent of new growth.

About three miles away is the village of Rocester, which stands at the confluence of two small rivers – the Dove and the Churnet – which then flow their final few miles to join the Trent on its way to the North Sea. At that distance the view was a little hazy, but the spire of Rocester church could clearly be seen rising in the mist and surrounded by trees. The phrase ‘the church in the vale’ came to mind. ‘In the vale’ is such an evocative phrase – so quintessentially English, so redolent of a more organic age, so lyrical.

And so I sat there for quite some time in the blissful sunshine, taking in the view, taking in the atmosphere, taking in the meaning. Although I don’t believe in the concept of ‘heaven’ as it’s usually perceived, I couldn’t help thinking that if there were a heaven, it would surely look something like this. A line from a Kate Bush song floated into my mind:

L’Amour looks something like you.

And then, just to lift the experience from the sublime to the magical, a wild rabbit hopped out of the wood and sat close by, nibbling the grass contentedly. Was it really so fanciful to wonder whether it might have been a gift from Aine, my favourite goddess? I said ‘thank you.’

As I walked home I realised that this place where I’m living has changed little in two hundred years. And so, uppermost among all the precious nuances of meaning and experience, was one word: Timeless.

As I said in an earlier post, I like timeless.