Roe in Bluebells | Lancashire "The merry month of May has shot through the soil in the Ribble Valley. Within days the last sycamore has sprung into leaf, towering over dandelion-dotted fields. In the woods, different carpets make up the fragrant forest floor. Wild garlic undulates as if continuously teased up by industrious elves, catching the light filtering through the canopies. Every tiny flower celebrates perfection, harmonising with the grass rippled by a much milder breeze, weaving floral dreams of abundance.

The bluebells come together for their annual gathering, their dainty petals of the richest assortments of every shade between sapphire silk and velvet purple. Each one is a study in intricacy.

The oak trees form a palace with no ceiling but the skies beyond the smallest of leaves where the birds hush by with whirling wings. Their songs and the wind are the music to which the dancers move in this spring time forest ball."

Roe in Bluebells | Lancashire "The merry month of May has shot through the soil in the Ribble Valley. Within days the last sycamore has sprung into leaf, towering over dandelion-dotted fields. In the woods, different carpets make up the fragrant forest floor. Wild garlic undulates as if continuously teased up by industrious elves, catching the light filtering through the canopies. Every tiny flower celebrates perfection, harmonising with the grass rippled by a much milder breeze, weaving floral dreams of abundance.

The bluebells come together for their annual gathering, their dainty petals of the richest assortments of every shade between sapphire silk and velvet purple. Each one is a study in intricacy.

The oak trees form a palace with no ceiling but the skies beyond the smallest of leaves where the birds hush by with whirling wings. Their songs and the wind are the music to which the dancers move in this spring time forest ball."

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