Listen carefully, the air is full of song, skylark and dunnock, robin and great tit. Every now and then a harsh croak and crack from a pheasant cuts through. Overhead the buzzard wheels around on lazy thermals; below, in the wood, the tap-tap of a woodpecker echoes against the branch.
Take in a breath, smell the honey and cabbage of the oilseed rape, releasing the scents into the sunshine. Look there goes the skylark, up-up-up until he is no more than a speck in the blue. Look around at the blackthorn blossom, the holly green and the burgeoning spring as it begins to swell the hedgerow.
Carefully through the gap, turn right into the ancient woodland. There at your feet are the jewelled anemones, bluebells and violets.
Here and there are the final golden nuggets of the celandines along with the paler yellow of primroses. Bare branches begin to cloth themselves in green, hiding the curls and spikes of their many fingers. Here and there are signs of others, leaving their mark.
This place is a special place, come take a walk with John and me.