The blue remembered hills
There is a place not far from me where the bluebells are known throughout Dorset. The woods are filled with heady aromas and a dazzling array of bright colours. It is a time when the ground and sky are wearing matching outfits in a deep and lovely, glorious blue. Next weekend, there will be a bluebell picnic up here to celebrate the marriage on Oak Apple Day of my friend Pelly's Number One Sheepwashlet. The whole village is invited. The beech trees are in shimmering coats of lime green. The pine trees overlook the vale with its patchwork of fields and the sea beyond. They sway in a Mediterranean-style breeze. Everything is beautiful. This is the place where I have stipulated my ashes are to be scattered. And, I have since discovered, Pelly has requested exactly the same thing. Even in the afterlife we will be gossiping among the trees, whispering through the bluebells, the beech leaves and the penny bun toadstools. We will probably be joined by lots of other villagers who, unbekno...