After Monet, a fudgy looking photo of an upland meadow pasture, replete with buttercups.
In here somewhere, lurks a lapwing, can you see it readers?
I like meadows, they look like they just ‘happen’ but they don’t, they need love and attention (as we found out when we became custodians of one). A tweak of fertilizer, a dash of cow muck, the time the grass is cut and the selective grazing of livestock all go to make a bespoke field.
Standing with the sun on my back a gazing across such a field has to be one of my earliest conscious memories of ‘a beautiful thing’ and that this is a ‘beautiful day’ I must have been aged about 7. Sadly that meadow now lies beneath an estate of ‘mock Tudor’ houses (shudder) that are so alien to the landscape they sit in even the road names they were handed down are from a different world.
I’m sure someone with more knowledge of agriculture will tell me, this type of field, has a poor crop and is inefficient, but do I sound as though I’m bothered?
If this topic floats your boat on a sea of meadow flowers, I can recommend ‘Meadows’ by Christopher Lloyd