Is there any flower in the British Countryside more perfect than the Wild Rose? Well there certainly isn't for me. Every year I look forward to it coming out. There are certain bushes dotted around the hedges on the farm and I know where all the roses are. I also know which one comes out first. So today - as the first flowers emerged into the sunlight - I took this photograph. I have put it on larger than life - but you can't get too much of a good thing, can you?
The Scottish poet Tom Scott, who died in 1995, said it for me in one of his last poems, "Let go who will." He was writing of getting old and approaching death and he wrote,
"spare me the sensitive nerve that sings,
and the rose".
For anyone who doesn't know what a stormcock is - it is a song thrush - quite rare round here these days but with a song which once heard is never forgotten.
The wild roses are short lived, so I shall enjoy them while they last and keep going down to this particular bush to sniff at the delicate scent they give off.
Tess will be happy to go with me as there is an old weighted barrel at the bottom of the yard which the farmer uses to weight down the back of various bits of equipment when he is towing them on his tractor. Tess is convinced that something lives under it (she may well be right) and would spend her whole day barking at the old barrel.