The harvested land stands naked, each fold exposed, bristling with stalks of stripped crops.
Riding here in summer is like traversing a desert.
Empty and waterless.
Arid and superficially lifeless, the land appears unwelcoming. But it's just an old acquaintance sparsely clad. I know and love this valley.
Thin clouds drag the sky releasing no rain.
Of course I am being dramatic. It really does rain in England. Sometimes a lot. But I like to let my imagination play. And deserts do open the mind.
Each footstep raises a little puff of dust.
Even on our horses my companion and I are just specks in an expansive landscape. Urging our horses into a canter, we scarcely seem to move.
I could readily stop here for an hour or three, sit with a book, look out for the occasional deer and red kites.
I could even live in the lee of a clump of trees, for it feels as if a little cover, a modicum of protection, might be needed in this expanse.