You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in the fields of gold
(Sting)
Ripening barley field--------
Walking with a friend on a hot summer summer afternoon in Wiltshire. A profusion of butterflies everywhere, a buzzard flying low between the trees, a muntjac disturbed takes off through the undergrowth - not sure which of us was more startled. It is good to be back in my familiar woods, waterways and fields. We wandered through the shady forest, made our way along a section of the Kennet and Avon Canal coming out by a green-gold field of barley. A meadow of wild grasses stood five feet high as we walked into it, reliving the joy of childhood for a few moments (when everything seemed taller than us).
My trip to Scotland and the northern isles of Orkney and Shetland was memorable in so many ways but the ripening grain fields of this southern county will always beckon me home.
