The strange, and possibly interesting, thing about the glorious late spring weather we are having of late is that I seem to stop writing. My days are so taken up by being gaspingly happy that I just don’t have the time, or even the same need.
While Ruby and I amble, or shamble, slowly around the accessible, and not so accessible, parts of the upper Colne valley, I take constant mental notes.
I notice the banks of cowslips, the way walking along the canal seems to force me into a relaxed saunter, the whiteness of the disytant pale moors at this time of year, the sluggish pace of the river, as it, too, wonders what all the rush is about.
And, all around me, far off and near, are
the rolling trills of the curlews.
Sometimes, I just can’t believe how happy I am! Fortunate is probably the more correct word.
When I get home, there is nothing to write about
There was nothing wrong with the coffee and the cake at the café by the canal, where the boats did things just often enough to keep me interested.
It all leads me to a quite dismal conclusion . . . that, maybe, a bit of misery is essential, otherwise I can so easily slump into the stare of the devoted cow.
Mind you, the weather here would never allow it. Nine days ago it was snowing! As soon as it rains I can grumble again!
In the meantime, being a contented cow seems a good idea.