SURROUNDED BY BUTTERCUPS

I am lying in the meadow surrounded by buttercups, In my supine position underneath the walnut tree they are now taller than I am. The strong sunshine of late May filters through its young leaves, dappling the grass and the wild flowers. I have taken my top off and chew idly on a long stem of grass, enjoying the sweetness. The sunlight warms my back just as the grass scratches my front. Close by I hear the Mill stream which babbles and tumbles beneath the deep green branches of a medlar tree, now covered with spring blossoms, each like a Tudor Rose.

It’s ready for cutting this field: to make hay for the winter. I say field but it’s more the size of a small paddock - or even a great lawn. Tear-shaped, it is hemmed in on two sides by the curve of the busy stream and on the other by the tree-lined track along which the mules, the only animals strong enough for these hills, used to plod with their cargoes of flour and walnuts for grinding in the Mill. No doubt the animals would enjoy a momentary rest in this paddock before the return journey, munching the same grass as I am munching now.



I am reminded of revising for my ‘A’ levels in just such dappled sunlight, lying semi-naked under a weeping ash. I am no longer revising for my exams, of course, though I am still trying to commit words to memory. Before me lies the play text of ‘Art,’ and I am learning my part. But my memory, once sharp, is now dull. Over and over I go, but to little effect.

Idly I count the wildflower species. I make it ten - that is ten that are actually flowering with something that is recognisably a flower. Biggest are the penny moon daisies, but then come the campion, coltsfoot, dead nettle, white and purple clover, dandelion, ladies mantle and of course the buttercups. Deep in the grass the little speedwell nestles, flecking the green tangle with a fairy dust of blue.

The fauna is there as well. No sooner am I settled but a spider crawls across my page - going where I want to ask him? A bee, of some indistinct family, buzzes around the buttercups, followed at a safe distance by an equally indeterminate species of fly. Is the fly cleaning up, I wonder, after the bee? Above me, I note a hover fly in hover mode. It appears to be watching me, but when it sees me looking it zigs away, backwards. Forwards, backwards - if you are a hover fly I don’t suppose it makes much difference.

Now, here comes a butterfly. It is of medium size, orange with many brown spots, almost too perfect to be anything but a man-made Chinese creation. It flutters about elegantly from flower to flower, slowly and without effort. Some species of fritillary, I suppose. If it has noted my presence in its field it has not shown any sign.

The crickets hunt me too. Across the field their endless rhythmic chirping creates a comforting ambiance. One can never feel lonely in a field of crickets. But they do have a habit of edging closer and as I persist with my futile line learning I can hear one somewhere near my feet, or so I judge. It sounds horribly loud and like a lawnmower.

I glare angrily, for he is disturbing my concentration. He quietens, but starts again as soon as I turn back to my book. He must be watching me, this cricket. No doubt there are birds watching him, or trying to. But if so I don’t see any. In this forested country, we hear a constant distant twitter of birdsong, but they are wary creatures. Too many guns, I suppose. Only the big flecked buzzards show themselves clearly as they wheel in the high sky, riding on the thermals that rise up the sun-warmed rocks.

All afternoon I have been collecting wood with the tractor. It’s a heavy task, sawing down the young shallow-rooted oaks killed by the heat wave of three years ago and bringing them back to the Mill’s great barn for firewood. Besides oak we pull chestnut, hazel and alder trees out of the river or from where the winter’s floods have left them high on the river bank. We fill the tractor’s box - it must hold about a ton - and then drive home again the tractor lurching and rolling on the uneven ground.

It’s a muscle-aching task and perhaps that’s why I want only to lie somnolent on this grass with the late afternoon sun warming my back and the cuckoo calling gently in the woods, dreaming of the herby pastis I took this elevenses instead of coffee, or the glass of chilled rosé from the slopes of Provence that I shall have shortly on the terrace, when the sun goes in.

These days there's no trouble at t'Mill!