Oh what a beautiful morning

A squashed adder, flat, like a toy shop snake, lies in the road, its curving wiggle preserved for all time, or at least until natural decay and car tyres wear it away completely.

There are horse flies bothering the horses and humans. Mares stand under the shade of leafy trees, tails swishing.

My friend's dog, Martha, sniffs and trots through the fields, heading for Bluebell Hill.

In Dorset, we're having a heatwave. In the Ionian islands, there's been sun and rain and twisters.

One hundred people speak silently over telegraph wires. Vapour trails glide listlessly through the morning sky in dreamy white lines.

Sheep graze, the sun glowing on their backs.

And then a lost lamb calls to its mother. From the other side of the hedge, Mother answers: where are you, little one?

And in a clear, Greek-flag blue sky, a solitary, wispy cloud, like a washed-out tide mark, stops for a while to take in the view.

It's the Pastoral Symphony without the music.

And then we shut the gate, brush past the ground elder which is beautiful in the right context and head up through the village. In the distance, the church clock strikes eight. Oh what a beautiful morning.

 

Mrs Bancroft is up early doing a morning shop in Bridport and Champagne-Charlie is getting out his mower.

There are children in secondary school uniform walking down to the bus and, up on the village green, I can see the legs of primary school children swinging to and fro. There is a mild argument going on.

'This is boring,' says one boy, about to head on.

'Well,' a rather confident little girl says, 'you'll be waiting outside the school gate for fifteen minutes. Where would you rather be, in a park or at a gate?'

My thoughts entirely. The Force is strong with this one.

That's about it.

Love Maddie x