June

June: The meadows smell of cut grass, the light is at its brightest. The hares run across the hills before the setting sun. 

When the very last daylight strokes the fells with its brush of gold and the sheep’s bleating carries across the valleys, when lady’s lace and buttercup turn into embroidery on the lush meadows and the day’s heat still lingers on the dry-stone wall, when the days never seem to want to end but keep promising new glorious tales with every moment the light lasts, when badgers go out for their strolls before dusk, Midsummer is upon us.