Springtime in Bransdale

A day spent under the glaring sun in Bransdale, labouring over the track down to the Mill. Enjoying the supposed delights of spring while breaking one’s back shovelling gravel. The sheep, slow as ever, eventually grasped that the trailer contained no food for them. The view of Cockayne was, predictably, lovely, with the Lodge making a timid appearance through the skeletal trees. The little church, as always, lurked behind the squat Yews, as if trying to avoid attention.