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I have wasted the day in the fields and the lanes,
I have tramped in the leaves and the mud;
I have dined upon air and scrumped me a pear
And an apple the colour of blood.
Though my fingers are purple from blackberry stains,
Though my hair is a tangle of straw;
Though my jacket was torn upon bramble and thorn,
It was worth it for all that I saw.
It was worth all the aches, it was worth all the pains —
I have rambled and scrambled and raced;
And my stick was mislaid where I dozed in the shade,
And I waded in brooks and neglected my books,
And I startled a hare (and the taste of that pear!)
What waste, what a glorious waste!
Sunday September 29, 2002 was just such a day — an autumnal day when it was good to be alive; when the hedgerows and trees were bursting with fruit, when the sun shone, when the wind was mild, when the leaves on the trees glowed like miniature sunsets, when birds sang and silly squirrels foraged for nuts... the kind of day when only an invalid, a prisoner or an idiot would not have stolen a few hours in what is left of the English countryside. So I did!
