The bog myrtle is flowering. The deep, russet red buds it held tightly all winter swelling and unfolding into structured little spires of faded rust to green, revealing tiny green stamens. Delicious, according to my goats, and intensely scented: volatile oils released as the goats browse wafting heady aromas of citrus, mint, and bay. Fescue, bent, purple moor grass and rushes are sending up tender new shoots through the trampled and grazed thatch of last season, promising a summer of green and lushness. The heather is greening. Big, sleepy bumblebee queens emerging from their nests clumsily bumble through coconut scented gorse, screaming chrome yellow against a momentarily clear, blue sky. The land is waking. The sun is warm, with all the signs of a good spring in between freezing showers, icy blusters and smatterings of snow that blows in horizontally in big, wet, splattering dollops, turning to mush as it hits the ground. Our cock chaffinch has seduced a hen, and the pair accompany me on my morning rounds through the mud for grains in the duck pen and dropped seeds from the sheep’s hay, he continuously, loudly proclaiming his devotion to his love, lest she stray. Bellies are swollen and udders are full. The lambs will soon be here. By the time this post arrives in your inbox I will be hunkered down waiting for the first of our season’s little handful of birthing ewes to lamb.
It’s been a crazy month over here,
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