I found my thrill...on Bluebell Hill
As the day progresses, you can sometimes meet Tuppence here, trilling like a canary, or Ding Dong Daddy recording birdsong in Lush Places, or Mr Sheepwash out with binoculars looking for ravens.
On the way up, the gypsy lace gently nods in the lane, in contrast to its furious movements earlier this week when the wind whipped through these parts. The pink campions and the buttercups clamour for sunlight and jostle for space along the verge, like the crowds lining the streets for a royal wedding.
Dead nettles, when upturned, showing two perfect pairs of fairy shoes ready for the little folk of Bluebell Hill to grab as they pass by on gossamer wings. The regal candelabra of horsechestnut trees, bobbing in the breeze, unusually quiet sheep and then chattering swallows, stretching out in their nests and gossiping, ready for the day ahead.
The walk up the hill is lined with beech trees, rustling and whispering a song in lime green.
And then the bluebells. Oh, those bluebells.
The poetry of the moment is all too brief. After making our descent we meet Champagne-Charlie clutching a copy of the Shooting Times.
'This is for you, chap,' he says to Mr Grigg, pulling out a supplement.
'The Bravissimo catalogue?' I say, with eyes open wide.
'Well I thought Mr Grigg was working at home today. Alone.'
I ask you. Grab your moments while you can.
That's about it.