Every Spring time in England, the general 50 shades of rainy grey that hangs over the country is banished as the sun makes it's first appearance over the United Kingdom (it has been away a long, long time).
It washes the garden with a golden glow and the sugar-frosted coating of winter melts from the grass. It is already starting to sound like the set of Mary Poppins, dawn choruses of glee and age old melodies from the birds replace our alarms. Apples begin to blossom on the trees, dandelions go absolutely BERSERK.
But the best of all about Spring, are the bluebells. And the Micheldever Forest floor has erupted in them. In folklore past, bluebells were believed to be "so intoxicating, their perfume made anyone who walked into a field of them fall asleep." As we wandered deeper into the forest, the combination of the sun pulsing through the tree tops and the colour the ground was turning was making me feel rather fanciful. Woodland creatures from Celtic folktales were prancing around in my head, accompanying the old tale of the unwary travellers who stumble upon a fairy picnic.
Once we had documented what felt like a very quiet once-in-a-lifetime-experience, we sat against this log and my vision started blurring blue. There was a wildness in it but my spirit was soothed. So soothed in fact, that I began to fall gently, tranquilizingly asleep...
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