Blakes Wood; This old wood is like a treasure trove of wild flowers, tumbled trees, the chainsaw has already been at work in another part of the wood, great piles of logs stacked up, the brushwood also piled high. Again we hear a cuckoo, twice in one week, are they making a comeback? There is also the noise, the branches rubbing together as the wind takes hold of them, creaking sometimes like an old sprung mattress. Dogs bark excitedly somewhere else, a labrador trots past his lower half wet where he has been in the stream.
|starwort as well|
|pyramidal bugle amongst the bluebells|
|shaded areas giving a deeper blue|