It is almost midsummer's day and on a walk my senses gorge on the riches of the countryside.
I leave the path and amble around the edge of a wildflower meadow. It is an impressionist's canvas of flowers and grasses. Blurry swathes of tawny brown and gold, dotted cream and purple with the heads of wild orchids and cow parsley.
The air is perfumed by the bank of bright green bracken against the hedge. There is the constant rumble and rattle of a harvester in the hay field next door. Bugle, Loosestrife, Self-heal; even the names of the flowers excite the imagination.
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