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As I went down through the tawny heather tussocks on St George's Day, the morning sun shone from a cloudless sky. No sound, natural or manufactured, troubled the air. Then, far away across the hidden dale below me, I heard my first cuckoo of the season – and right on cue. On St George's Day in 1951 and again in 1952 I heard the first cuckoo of each season. Then in 2003 and 2004 the first one was heard one day later.
Further down, below the moor, the laneside verge was bright with lady's-smock, the so-called cuckooflower that blooms when the first cuckoo calls. All around me, on these shady banks, the retiring violets were cowering in contrast to the brilliant stars of wood sorrel, somewhat like miniature wood anemones in damp and mossy corners. At an even lower level each margin of my lane was bedecked with the thickening growths of sweet cicely, already emitting its attractive, aniseed aroma.
The sun continued its journey across the cloud-free sky as I crossed the green flood plain of the Derwent where scattered flocks appeared as giant field mushrooms. Near the ancient stepping stones that allow a crossing to the south bank in all but times of flood I sat on a rotting fallen trunk to marvel at the mature bird cherry, now in full, sweet-scented bloom, that marks the place of descent to the crossing point. Its heady aroma drifted my way, its massed clusters of large white flowers a spectacle to behold. But though I sat there for half an hour and saw a score of ramblers passing by it, not one of them gave the tree a single glance. Some had wires coming out of their ears so were severed from the world around them; others were chattering madly so saw neither bird, beast nor bountiful blossom; some had their heads down, oblivious to what they were missing.
