A Sunday walk.

We often go walking at the weekend and for holidays too, for that matter. This week’s excursion was one of the local walks that we regularly do, which is pleasant walking and always full of photographic possibilities-how can the village often described as England’s prettiest-not be? But today I concentrated on the wild flowers and meadows. The buttercups are in full flower and this looks like it’s going to yield good hay soon.

Must be summer, the wild roses are out! My garden roses are beautiful, but there is something remarkable about the purity and simplicity of a wild rose.

There is not a hedgerow in England without May blossom-hawthorn, that is. It’s all going over now, but never fails to may me think of the Tennyson’s poem, The May Queen.

All the valley, mother, ’ill be fresh and green and still,
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,
And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill merrily glance and play,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

And perhaps the heroine of the poem lived in a little cottage like this one, with the black unicorn over the door, and a rather lovely clematis in flower growing beside it. My husband thinks the unicorn mark was issued by insurance companies in the eighteenth century-a sort of early form of advertising. Several of the cottages in the village have different marks like this one.

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