Behind each blade of grass…
If you are fortunate enough to be surrounded by gorse on high ground, with the strong north-easterlies blowing across your half defrosted nose, you will be in luck - dare I say, even delight.
Suddenly, no matter what time of year, as gorse has flowers in differing quantities throughout the year, the aroma of coconut permeates the air and senses. Where is the giant bounty bar? Where are the beautiful women, bronzing away beneath a basting of ambre solaire on them? The smell of this common hardy perennial can transport you with its aromatic gift, without the perils of hard drugs and it doesn’t originate in Afghanistan or a Colombian drug cartel farm. No, it is free, safe, legal and on the moors and highlands of Britain.
I think all women should roll around in a gorse bush, rather than purchasing overpriced glass bottles with a 5000% markup on price, by some Italian with a comical name to suggest elegance and refinement, but in actuality, Daz smells better.
The Rugged Club.
Counting quail, but also delighting in the song of birds like the Reed Bunting, perched solitary atop a bush. They have a sort of last-man-standing attitude, much like a robin. Amazing to see them fend off other birds much bigger.
A blind retrieve over deep gullies and inlets, then quatering on sand and in cover to retrieve.
Visiting friends and family, on my usual route, I walked past Norman Bates’ house today (yes, he is still into transvestitism). I then found myself in a sort of Clockwork Orange/Soylent Green underworld-subterranean lair and finished off seeing a character out of a Sylvain Chomet film, on some madcap urban adventure - yet with a highly whimsical but poignant ending.
How life imitates art.