In the woods above Worth

Even where I park the car is pretty:



But Pippa wants to run so we set off:



pausing to admire more little flowers:



The foxgloves will be out soon:


From these tall trees comes the loudest birdsong of any of our walks:



The smaller trees either side cast shade,



but where the path broadens out and light gets in, the sandy soil here heats up quickly:



For all its mystery,



This is a working wood, with coppice:



as well as felling of large oaks:




Looking up into the arms of a beech tree:



The vigour of an oak bursting through its trunk:



The South Downs in the distance: we'll go there another day.

Walkies in the Ashdown Forest

(you can click on the pictures to enlarge them)

Pondering English things

A few minutes ago I read a pleasant and enjoyable blog entry about some dances at a cultural festival for spring. This was in the north of England. There were photographs of dances from southern Africa, from the Alps, and from France. There were none of English dances. Perhaps the blogger didn't happen to get a good shot of them; perhaps there were none at the festival. It did make me wonder though why dances and culture from abroad is often of so much more interest to English people than our own. I know we are very porous, very open (in many cases), and that tolerance or even eagerness to absorb outside influence is itself an English characteristic.

I thought briefly of morris-dancing, something I always love to watch but people I'm with seem to find somehow embarrassing.

I feel myself dashing to add all sorts of caveats and explanations here, about not wishing to return to the past, about recognising the fluidity of culture and so on. But instead I will choose to think that readers know I'm not a Daily Mail type. My blog, my thoughts.