The massive oak trunk lies close to where it fell, now carved into a bench. I sit there, feeling the balm of long-awaited spring sunshine on my face. Across the valley, the hay meadows are greening up, promising bales and bales of goodness for the horses. The hum of the bypass is, for a few minutes, overpowered by the piercing trill of a skylark, rising up just a few metres from me, rising up just a few metres from me. I smile at the walkers passing by. As spring revives the landscape, so too does it beckon people.
Much of the local countryside here is inaccessible, often behind barbed wire and “keep out” signs. Here at High Ash Farm, miles of wide grass tracks are freely accessible to the public; my dad has even created a small parking area for walkers. Being close to a city brings some difficulties, but also opportunities to share nature. It means hundreds of people care about the farm and become unofficial custodians, picking up litter and reporting broken fences. Maybe, as tenant farmers, my brother and dad have an in-built knowledge that this land is not theirs to possess.
But change looms. Parking charges are under consideration at the nearby remains of a Roman town that are popular with walkers. Maintaining the site is expensive, especially as there have been recent problems with public behaviour. Yet the risk is that this will increase traffic on the surrounding narrow lanes here, as drivers seek places on verges and the farm’s free parking spots.
A little owl perches on the fence post behind me. With a strict, yellow gaze, it watches over everyone like a grumpy park-keeper. Strictly speaking, it’s the owl that’s not meant to be here – the species having been introduced to the UK from Europe in the 19th century – but here it is.
A dog on a long extending lead runs near, sniffing at the ground, and the owl flies off with a bumpy, undulating flight, like a light plane hitting turbulence. I resist the urge to frown at those who disturbed my moment. The child in me wants this place all to myself, but the adult knows it is not mine.
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