Mayday Walk

Yesterday – the warmest May Day on record – I was walking in the Buckinghamshire countryside. The hawthorn blossom was so richly abundant that it was like walking through an illustration of spring from a Ladybird book – and not just hawthorn: cow parsley in flower everywhere ('lost lanes of Queen Anne's Lace'), blue drifts of forget-me-nots, late bluebells still in flower, white comfrey, green alkanet, jack by the hedge, 'daisies pied and violets blue' in the fresh green grass. The horse chestnut candles were in full flower, the trees in young leaf, the sun shining gloriously – and there were butterflies galore: orange tips, brimstones, speckled woods, holly blues, peacocks, commas... All this and some peaceful towpath walking – no belligerent cyclists – and, from time to time, magnificent views across miles of rolling countryside. Although it was almost too hot for walking, it was a marvellous day, one to remember. 

  We covered no great distance, and our route was circular, beginning and ending in a village called Stoke Hammond (church locked, alas). This, as a plaque proudly announced, was one of the Thankful Villages of the First World War, one that lost none of its men. It's a subject I've written about before – here – so I won't repeat myself (but will correct my assertion that France has only one Thankful Village – it has 12).