An early hint of spring this still, dry Wednesday morning: tendrils
of cotton-wool mist swathe the approach to Bere Ferrers and white-coated
avocets peck breakfast from the tide-line as we half dozen head west under the
railway line and down steep fields to Liphill at low water. Then, in panting
silence, its that long uphill across the hunched shoulder of the peninsula
to Well Farm, then gently down to the
wooded valley of Hole Wood beyond. En route there are explosions of white
blackthorn in the hedgerows, a riot of differing species of daffodil, a
wheeling buzzard or two and even new lambs playing pontoon in sunlit fields now
spring-rich with new grass as we pick our way back towards lunch and a carefully-drawn
pint at the Olde Plough Inn. Lucky ? We
all think so. Just a bit.