What better time of day than the early morning with the dew still on the grass, with the sun beginning its ascendance chasing the misty night clouds away. My morning walk of an hour or so is a definite must for me and the dog. He makes a great fuss about going then dawdles his way past the fresh smells until he gets going in his normal advance position. This morning we went up the track past newly baled hay with occasional sentinels of buzzards waiting for prey. We passed the neighbour's vines with its decoration of silver flashing tape left over from Christmas, as a deterrent to marauding deer, then on down through the wood.
The abundance of wild flowers this year shows no sign of diminishing; as always it seems a preponderance of yellows and purple. Mostly tall as they fight for light with equally magnificent and varied grasses.
Some of the woodland had been part felled eighteen months ago by a local wood merchant. Bared horribly at the time the ground cover has quickly taken over and the trees left are profiting from more light and air. The sun still casting horizontal rays makes a marvellous show of light and shadow on the trunks. I have a fascination for lines  where they appear in wild places. The verticals of trees or posts in a fence contrasted with the horizontals of tracks or wire. I have a photograph  of the shadows of a chestnut paling fence falling on the varying planes of the rocks on which the shadows fell. A memory of the île d'Oléron!

The bottom of the valley still had a haziness in the air where sheep were spread grazing, with the inevitable fraught cry of a lamb who did not know where his mother was. Later in the day when the heat is up they will all be huddled along under the trees at the edge of the field. It is a great relief these days not to be responsible for a flock as the season of the blow-fly approaches and one has to be on continual guard against a sheep with fly blow when eggs turn to maggots and make their homes in the wool and skin, which cause such discomfort to the sheep. They have then to be brought home, cleaned and treated.
On the hillside field a herd of Limousin cows with their calves look at us with bovine disdain. Their field is peppered with the sentinel flowers of  Mullein or Aaron's rod (and a host of other names); a plant used medicinally for lung problems. These cows are placid and unmoving used to seeing walkers. A bunch of heifers a year or two old awaiting their turn to be productive are a different kettle of fish. One wag of  a tail from a passing dog and they are likely to have their tails in the air and be at the other end of the field before you can say bluebell. Talking of which where the track meanders back up to the village the bared stalks of the bluebells that had such a show earlier in  the year have now begun their hibernation. The wild roses have changed and are beginning to form their hips, while the blackberries in full flower have yet to form their berries.
In the wood, a grassy corner mown once a year when a family and friends come for  a weekend of fête at Pentecost, is looking the worse for wear. Their rustic shed has collapsed in a heap of rotten wood and broken roof sheets. The kitchen sink suspended between a couple of trees sags at one corner. The whole area once more is being overtaken by the quick growing acacia shoots. they will be two or three metres high by next Pentecost.
Just at the top of the hill a deer grazing in the maize, surprised by our presence raced up the fence and across the track to the safety of the wood, nearly bowling the dog over. He knows now after several futile attempts at chase  that it is not worth the effort to follow!
I returned home with only one drinks can in my pocket. I hate to see litter specially beside the nearly wild tracks. Bottles are my real hate. I have to pick them up and dispose of them; the winter is the worst time with emptied Pastis bottles - but that is another story.