I've had my knuckles rapped (in the nicest possible way) for Leaving Things Out.
.....There was indeed a sky lark. We hear it first and crane our necks to spy it. The little thing, wings aflutter, soars out of the gloaming, a dark speck against a felty grey sky. Singing, singing its little bird-heart out, a warbling, liquid song above a damp hillside. The only other sounds were the mundane tramp of our boots and the steady munch of grazing sheep.
I must mention the cuckoo too - listen - it's somewhere over there, down in the valley. It's the first we have heard this year and heads are cocked the better to catch the distinctive notes. We hear a sound, full and unmistakable, with just enough time between 'cuckoos' for us to wonder if we were indeed, mistaken. But no, there it is again. And again. Now the call becomes fainter as the unseen bird flies away from us into the distance. Finally we can no longer hear it and we resume our trudge up the stony path.
I suppose there will be trouble if I don't mention the bluebells amongst the lush grass of Gittinshay Wood .... and the mist through the trees and the sweet smell of rain in springtime. The soft sappy green of the conifers' new growth was light and bright and over an inch long already.
We didn't know that the wood was Gittinshay Wood of course, because we were lost. Standing in a clearing, disorientated, with maps turned this way and that, imagining paths and tracks we were found by a dog that appeared through the trees. Hardly the baying spectral hound you'd expect to find in a fog-girt forest, more a small and affectionate cross-breed. I'd like to tell you that the little thing guided us to our destination but in fact we sent 2 boys ahead and trusting to luck stumbled after them.
Is that it? I'm sure SBS will tell me if I have forgotten anything else.