Went up "my" hill, Cold Kitchen, yesterday on my annual pilgrimage to see the blanket of bluebells. More random destruction over the winter by falling oak branches, not surprising and so new paths have been woven through the bands of bells and ramsons (garlic). "My" tree on the top was looking good, mossy and shapely. I'm grateful for the belonging, for the imagination in the soul and the sense of connection, of nourishment. I rambled on about the deep past to Gill, who accompanied me. On view were a Roman temple, barrows, White Sheet Hill Iron Age camp, bright yellow rapeseed. We walked up the Roman road from the north to the top of the hill to meet the road from the east and west at its crossing. A special place and the highest point around here. What do people make of my landscape stories? I hope others are speaking of them elsewhere along with their love of place. I hear about other parts of the world, other experiences, from Gill. Cold Kitchen invites many stories to flow.
Waiting for watercolour paints to arrive, feel strangely frustrated at this leaf-out time that I have no Viridian green.