Our walks through the Small Dark Wood of the Mind to the field of the hollowing oak, and out over the farmland that's under development, have been less frequent lately, mainly on account of repeated storms and rainfall. It's a shame because I always feel better when we've been there, and with such terrible news of war, and, closer to home, the grave illness of a dear friend, I need whatever solace I can get.
And Cwtch, too, needs a good run from time to time.
'Let's go for a walk,' they said, and then they took me to the vet where they stuck a needle in me, and then they went to Farmfoods.
The best runs are combined with the chasing of crows ...
... or failing that, sticks.
Of course, if we'd stayed home every time it was stormy or wet underfoot, we'd not have been out at all, so there were days when we just got on with it and got muddy.
Even when it hasn't been sloshy, the soil has been as thick and sticky as Christmas pudding.
Not that there haven't been days with blue skies too, and interesting clouds ...
... and for a piece of edgelands that is resolutely devoid of such spring beauties as snowdrops and wild daffodils, at least some hints of the coming season.
periwinkle
cuckoo pint
catkins
red admiral butterfly
We haven't walked over the golf course much lately, mainly because the nearby parking has been blocked off for months while a new pitch and putt course is constructed. We did take a look the other day, though, and found that a sizeable area of scrub where chiff-chaffs nested and rabbits burrowed has been cleared in readiness for its new life as a manicured bit of grass.
At least there's still enough space for a small collie to run and sniff and turn her bum to you while she's having a drink. Every dog needs somewhere a little bit wild to run wild.
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