Writing these is cathartic, and also is a reason to stop and look at the trees so I can do environmentalist virtue signalling on my blog that I suspect very few people read.

In the field, Ghyll bounds amid big heaps of clover, thick and dense and cream and pink. The bees are out, and the little gnats and flies that feed on pollen, and at one point Ghyll even chases a little brown butterfly.

On our walk yesterday Sam and I spent half an hour looking up trees on Google Lens, distinguishing alder from beech from elm from cherry. Now I notice that all of the cherry trees on Moor Lane look really raggedy, with holes chewed in their leaves and brown fringes and lichen caking their spindly branches. There are two tall sycamores overhanging the path, though, and the shade they cast in the lateday sun is delightful.