As the sun goes down on our east Fife ridge, and with the promise of new snow over the coming week, I find that the last clutches of wayside daffodils look particularly vulnerable. For now, they are still golden – fluttering and dancing, inevitably, in the hilltop breeze – but it won’t be long before they are gone for another year. It is hard not to think again of Wordsworth, that poet who found wonder in everything.
It seems that he is a little out of fashion today and, were he to return unannounced to wander the quieter lanes of the Lake District, he would quickly be identified as one of those “lone enraptured males” who haunt what is left of the countryside, sniffing the flowers and pausing, in the shade of some deep lane, to watch a passing badger vanish into the undergrowth.
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