I had a little adventure on my walk this morning.

I was just strolling down the last bit of fellside , which is not on a footpath so really I shouldn’t walk there, but it is one of my favourite bits because there are so many flowers, as well as the hawthorn blossom at the moment there are speedwells and forget-me-nots and dandelions and violets and primroses, and lots more. Sometimes when Mark is offshore I sit down there on a fallen branch under a tall tree and talk to him on the telephone, which is lovely even when it is raining.

This morning I had just reached the tall tree when I heard a little commotion coming from the gorse bush beside me.

A tiny chick, still fluffy, was squeaking its head off and belting round and round in circles.

I looked at it with some interest for a minute, and called the dogs to heel, because they were interested as well. After a minute another one appeared, and I realised there was a nest, carefully buried just out of sight, and I would never have noticed it had it not been for the heedless chick recklessly charging about. Indeed, I have passed it every morning for months and never noticed it.

I was gazing at it with great curiosity when there was another commotion just behind me.

The mother bird, who turned out to be a pheasant, started flapping about and then dashed away down the fellside.

I had great difficulty in restraining the dogs from dashing after her.

Of course I realised straight away that she was valiantly trying to lead me, the apex predator, away from her nest and her precious chicks, and I felt instantly guilty and set off down the fell side. I did not follow her, because I thought she was probably quite upset enough, how horrid to imagine your babies in such peril that you would volunteer your own life to distract a predator from their fragile little bodies.

She ran a little way down the fell side before realising that her chicks were safe, and we parted company, she to rush back and presumably count them, anxiously, and me to go and rinse mud off Rosie in the beck at the bottom.

It was a very splendid walk. The sun was shining and every bird for miles was singing its head off, and everywhere is very green and fresh. It is a good day to live in the Lake District.

I did not dawdle for too long, though, because of course today was the day of Mark coming home. He had sent me a message at nine in the morning telling me that the Weather Gods had smiled, and he had landed in Aberdeen, and there were lots of last-minute tidying things to be done before he appeared.

All the tidying up was partly for his benefit, but also, partly, so that we can shirk with a clear conscience whilst he is at home. It looks as if he might be going back after a week or so, and I do not want to waste it doing housework, so the fridge is full and the dusting is done.

He arrived at about three o’clock, laden with oil-rig luggage, and promptly fixed my car, which has been slowly expiring from a sulking turbo. After that he called the painter, who was supposed to be painting the front of the house but who has decided it is too hard and I have not seen him for a week. Mark paid him off and called another one, so that difficulty is concluded as well, much to my colossal relief.

He unloaded his washing and we came out to work. He keeps yawning, because he had to check in for the helicopter at half past five this morning, so probably we will not stay out for the nightclub.

It is very lovely to have him home.

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