David Riley
Everything that had first attracted us to the Polden Hills coalesced in that first morning. From the lick of the smooth green downs speckled with spring flowers that swept upwards to the rim of the hawthorn-studded escarpment, white blossom cascading seductively, to the mewing specks of wheeling Buzzards almost lost in the ocean of sky as they rode effortlessly on the thermals, to the haze of fresh, vibrant green over the awakening hedgerows and trees. I could make out a hangar of trees bleeding down the hillside and, in the foreground, a jumble of moss-covered roofs the stone houses in the village of Stawell.
