On a gloriously warm and sunny Good Friday, being the start of a four day holiday weekend, the government was still urging the public to adhere to the coronavirus lockdown regulations; the UK reported death toll was now approaching 1,000 in the last 24 hours; and a small but significant minority of people were transgressing and being variously dealt with by the police.
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The diurnal poppies that, if regularly deadheaded, will last for another six months have appeared in the back garden.
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In the front we have pink cherry,
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two different crab apples,
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and Amanogawa blossoms;
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while clematis Montana and vinca vie for purchase on the low wall.
After lunch I walked along Christchurch Road to the fallow field, down into Honeylake Wood, and back.
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My chosen entrance to the field, avoiding the kissing gate was now becoming quite well trodden.
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The arable land is fronted by blackthorn hedgerows
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with wild flowers such as daisies and dandelions at their base.
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Tractor tracks bend round the opening to the wood,
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while through the hedge to the far left the screeching of groupie gulls alerted me to ploughing in Roger Cobb’s top field.
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Stretching shadows striated sylvan footpaths and attendant celandines.
I stepped into the trees to keep my distance from two male neighbours I had never met before who lived at the corner of Hordle Lane opposite The Royal Oak.
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Among the ubiquitous yellow flowers, in various stages of disintegration in their return to the soil
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lay broken branches of birch and other arboreal debris.
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Velvet moss coated trunks and roots of trees entwined by meandering ivy.
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A very shallow trickle was all that remained of a small stream that usually joins
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the greater watercourse which would normally cover
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this fallen limb against which it now laps and ripples.
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This time I crossed the bridge, continued a short distance up the mounting slope. and backtracked past
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a clump of starry wood anemones.
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A walking couple crossing the field in my direction on my way back thought better of it and turned round to cross the path of
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the two gentlemen I had seen earlier as, keeping their distance, they crossed to my chosen hole in the hedge and presumably returned home before I did.
This evening we dined on succulent roast pork; roasted new potatoes in their skins; crisp sage and onion stuffing and Yorkshire pudding; crunchy carrots and firm Brussels sprouts; red cabbage cooked with onions and garlic in red wine with a touch of balsamic vinegar; and tasty gravy, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Mezquiriz.