The season threatens to race through to its climax too early without sufficiently savouring each moment emulating the over-enthusiasm of a novice lover. This could be partly illusory as each year, to an ageing observer, is more compressed than the equivalent a year ago. But it's certainly the perception that the blooms that mark the separate phases of spring have been persuaded by long periods of dry and bright weather to compete for attention. "Hold on" you want to say, "you'll soon have nothing left."
Bluebells were out early as were others. Now rowan is showing and the bracken already making an impression. Meanwhile,in the pasture enclosure, lady's smock is running amock during the absence of the sheep. Cotton grass is always a welcome foil to heather and grass, its whiteness being just what's needed to lift a routine view as effectively as bunting at a street party.
Why would anyone want to walk on Burbage?
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