The young lambs above Digley are like coat hangers with a fleece on them at the moment. There’s nothing to them at all. On a warm bank holiday evening we stepped into a pastoral scene of lush green fields and motherly ewes.
The trees of Digley Wood and sky above were caught in the stillness of wind free water. We spoke with two characters sat arms crossed on a bench by a 60 year old motorbike. Despite the warm afternoon one remained helmeted and his voice echoed slightly when he spoke of miles per gallon,cuckoos and medieval farmers. I kept a straight face.
Along the lane a bit I wandered off and saw a pair of Ring Ouzels flitting about a field quarry as Lapwings combed the air with diving wings.