Maybe this Spring should be remembered as Buttercup Spring, as they are so fine and so golden but most of all so prolific.
I have just taken Hattie the dog for her evening walk, and as we are a few hundred miles further North, the buttercups are still shining in great carpets across the fields.
We motored up into the Yorkshire Dales today, a fairly peaceful drive as most people are back at work. In an unexpected bolt of spontaneity [plans tend to get sticked to when RP is behind the wheel] we stopped off at the Strid. He remembered the name from a boy scout trip when he was about 11, so we turned round and explored.
It was the River Wharf where it crashes thru the limestone rocks, creating "white water" amongst the gorgeous golden brown tumbling peaty waters.
RP remembers it as much deeper and wilder, either he was more impressionable, or it was a different time of year, but it was still beautiful. Notices claimed it was 30' deep as it crashed through narrow gaps that one would think would be fun to jump. However the notices were in blood red and warned the Strid had taken lives before now, so we desisted.
We stopped for lunch at a pub that had a Crock barn [impressive beams] and a basket of little terry towelling flannels instead of paper towels, so it was very posh. However Yorkshire folk, well the ones on public show anyway, don't do posh, so it was friendly and welcoming.
As opposed to the last lunch where they wouldn't let Hatters in and had Victorian naked ladies in the loo. Creepy somehow.
The Crock barn had photos of female role models, and altho they included one shot of the naked calendar ladies, who live near by apparently, it somehow had a much more celebratory feel.
We drove back on the back roads, presumably mostly used by thin rabbits, a bit scary when meeting Landrovers head on.
I am making my rusty dyed calico vessels [with nails] and despairing of ever completing the Arches, and listening to success in the cricket and the tennis, so buttercups all round.