From A Penine Garden

After the sun has burnt the morning mist to a memory, the sky is as clear as a bell. 


The cool dawn air is replaced by a warm morning sun, gentle and kind on the skin.

The birds sing. They sing and sing all morning long, punctuated with a bleating lamb or contented cow.

Along the lane, quiet except for the odd tractor, ramblers embrace the best part of the day, cyclists take on the ups and downs, and dog walkers cover well – trodden paths. Greetings are exchanged,  raised hands of acknowledgement, and kindly waves between strangers as well as friends. 

In the barns and in the fields, work is done, graft on England’s green hills. In the kitchens, the smell of baking masks the country smells, briefly at least.

It’s a culture of its own. The views are the artwork, the nature the music, and the comings and going of every day people are any storyteller’s muse, their lives steeped in the history of the old stone cottages and distant mill towers, the bread and butter of life for previous generations. 

Yes, it’s nice up here, with the sun on your back and the air in your lungs. With a second cup of coffee before the morning is done, it’s hard to want to be anywhere else.

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