The world from my window

High up on Bluebell Hill, you can forget the world around you. You wouldn't know the United Kingdom had voted yesterday on a new electoral system. You wouldn't know the shooting of the world's most wanted man was causing a furore around the globe. Dorset's highest point is a peaceful place for an early morning walk. It makes you feel good to be alive and proud to be English, as a soundtrack of Vaughan Williams plays through your head. As the day progresses, you can sometimes meet Tuppence here, trilling like a canary, or Ding Dong Daddy recording birdsong in Lush Places, or Mr Sheepwash out with binoculars looking for ravens. On the way up, the gypsy lace gently nods in the lane, in contrast to its furious movements earlier this week when the wind whipped through these parts. The pink campions and the buttercups clamour for sunlight and jostle for space along the verge, like the crowds lining the streets for a royal wedding. Dead nettles, when upturned, showing two perf...

The world from my window this morning is bright and cheerful. May is absolutely the best month, with the lime green leaves of trees on the village green and the gypsy lace, pink campions, bluebells and yellow dead nettles along the banks of the lanes. The fields are full of buttercups, dandelion clocks, cuckoo flowers and speedwell. There are wallflowers in pots outside my front door, a huge sign on the playground fence advertising a fete tomorrow (complete with snail racing and paintballing) and the remains of some tulips next to the village pump. The latter is due for another twee revamp in the shape of concrete containers filled with bedding plants, courtesy of a villager who thinks it makes the square look nice. Please God don't let her put bizzy lizzies there again. I can't abide them. Begonias make my flesh creep. The tree pollen causes me to sneeze, as does the dust created by Mr Grigg as he puts the finishing touches to our front room, now that the builder (with shirt...