We were sitting under a giant sweet chestnut at the top of a steep field tumbling down to the River Dart, like a rivulet of mercury winding north to Totnes and beyond to Dartmoor, whose crooked granite tors look like approving thumbs. Greenfinches chirred and a song thrush went through its dial-up modem repertoire. A lone seal lolloped on the estuary mud, lazily waiting for the tidal river to reclaim it.
“I come into the peace of wild things / who do not tax their lives with forethought / of grief … ”, whispered Frank, leading our group’s nature walk. “… for a time / I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.”
