Walking up the lane – which is walking up the hill, feels like a Herculean task in the heat. Reaching the top there is a a gentle breeze, a friendly welcome in the green.
As I walk, birds flutter out of trees and bushes. Their flight paths very low. Almost as though they think they may burn their wings in this red hot sun. Perhaps there is a folk memory among birds of the myth of the wren burning its feathers as it brought fire back from the gods.
The sheep in the woods at the top of the hill are trying to keep cool and baaaa their comments to any passer by. I think of dogs in hot cars and wonder what it is like to be a sheep even if not wearing a full winter coat.
The moss on the lane that leads one up the centre of the lane is no longer green and moist but dry as tinder and crackles underfoot. One poor thistle has bent right over in the heat!
Short while ago there were reeds and rushes in the fields. Now they’ve been cut and are dry and baking in the heat. The stream has a deeper, hollow voice as it flows over the ancient stone steps that help the stream on its way down the hill.
There are still small things to observe in the green – a speckled wood butterfly resting on a sunny leaf and what I think is a shield bug, probably a hawthorn shield bug – on a hawthorn. The wood avens is now all burr and no flower and the woundwort flowers are showing off the detail of their individual flowers.