By Maureen Barron
The path starts at the fields given over to money making whooping windmills. They say the blades kill the flying birds in the dark! I hope they don't. Why do I have to worry? It spoils things. Don't think! Dog daisies and Hawthorn hedges glimmering from sun's rays. On through the meadows following long trodden pathways, through childhood memories feral children playing forever freedom, no worries. Dogs wagging, sniffing we go on through the stinging nettles dock leaves, burrs towards the boggy bit, where in springtime, the primroses, wild orchids and rhododendrons paint the landscape. The ducks and moorhens slide in and out of the ponds, adding their quacks and squeaks to the sounds of skylarks singing overhead. The sun is warm and pleasant Almost an eclipse in my eyes.