Humble Pie

Walking home along quiet lanes of the village this May morning, the sound of sheep’s feet pattering on tarmac and the unmistakable bleating of an approaching flock snatched me from reverie.  Their bobbing faces filled the lane from one grey drystone wall to another. They were running straight at me.  A moment’s regret for not having one of those phones to whip out and capture the scene preceded my hasty retreat to a safe passing place.

‘You were lucky,’  the shepherd said, ambling past with two dogs.  I was, I agreed, not just for the narrow escape but also for the sight of them.

On, past my neighbour’s garden, where  grass seed is greening nicely beside the sweep of the new drive after the last few days’ sunshine and the plot looks neat, peaceful and rather grand.  Perhaps all will be well.

And so to our own patch:DSCF0660 dense with tall grass and blue bells nodding amid spent daffodils in need of dead heading.  I must eat humble pie for my (sadly) not infrequent waspish outbursts.

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