Wimpole Hall in Royston

The day of our visit to Wimpole Hall was grey and overcast, with a chill wind, but we were well wrapped up and it was delightful to see our countryside in spring. We came upon fields of cowslips nodding their pretty heads and braving the cold winds. There were two lonely birds on a lake: one an attractive grebe, and the other a beautiful white swan. Each kept its own company of silent reflection. We were admiring banks of primroses leading down to the lake when we noticed a heron nearby, who suddenly rose from the water’s edge and came to rest not more than twenty feet away in a field full of sheep and their lambs. We walked through this field with the little lambs racing and chasing, jumping and climbing on to fallen trees – it was magical.

The staccato sound of a woodpecker drumming high in a tree caused us to pause, lift our heads and search for him in vain. High on a hill, on the edge of a field, we came across the remains of a hare: bones bleached and weathered jutting out from the last remnants of fur. This caused me to wonder if there were no foxes in the area, for surely the hare’s remains would have been carried off, and if not foxes, were there no carrion crows in these parts?

We turned toward the car and then headed for home through the lanes or minor roads across the beautiful Hertfordshire countryside. The first thing we saw was a bird of prey, strong wings silently slicing the air as he searched the field below for prey. Across the road a seemingly small blackbird sat in the fork of a leafless oak tree, as if seeking shelter from the cold northerly wind.

The roadside verges were prettily peppered with bluebells, coltsfoot, dandelion, daisies, primroses and cowslips. Two pheasants lay on the roadside, probably struck by cars, and countless live ones flocking the fields and verges. A ford glistened over the road topped by a lone wading moorhen, while up on a slope were two dozen mallards dozing, heads tucked snugly under their wings.

We passed a rookery full of noisy cawing birds and two badgers still and in their final sleep. I wondered if they were a pair.

Between Standon and Much Hadham we chanced on two muntjac deer cropping the roadside verge.

It was a beautiful ride home. So many trees with their pretty fresh green frocks on to welcome spring, quintessentially English views of fields broken by mile upon mile of hedgerows, woodlands, rolling hills and, in a dip, a village marked only by roofs, chimney stacks and a church spire. All the while, the birds chorused overhead.