Out in the woods today, sheltering from the wild weather, I came across something I used to dream about - a woodland den.
Just high enough for me to duck inside without dragging my legs in the sticky mud, I found it to be everything a den should be, except for the leaks. And I wanted to sit down and make myself at home, listen to the comings and goings of the blustery wind and pull out my notebook without seeing my ink running away down the pages.
Not the right sort of day for any of that. The stooping was uncomfortable and it gave me a view of mud, broken branches and shattered hunks of chalk instead of the last few lingering bluebells, and the forget-me-nots and speedwell that ran riot in all the places that still had a clear view of the sky. A sky full of rain. It seems that blue flowers like it best here.
I quite liked it as well. I stayed until the rain eased off and then climbed out of the valley, overdressed for the exertion. The grey rain blanket tucked in low, made the edge of the visible world seem too close.