There’s a simple slate memorial slab on the wall of the old church in Martindale near here. Remembering a former priest of the parish, it bears an exquisite inscription from the Song of Songs, 2.12
The time of the singing of birds is come
Cloud-capped Blencathra, bathed in sunshine as we cycled by, made for an atmospheric ride, despite collisions with the millions of midges also thriving (those that weren’t snapped up by birds on the wing not busy singing) – in the humid warmth of a lakeland autumn afternoon.
Eycott Hill holds a profound silence and space that I’m always awed by. Very few things indeed are better antidote to this world’s contemporary anxieties than deep silence beneath the rich blue dome of the sky. Here, as in the ultimate cycling onwards into the peace of all eternity, the time of the singing of birds is, indeed, come – and these quieter songs effectively drown out the raucous cacophany of some of the very much louder ones!
wind in my wheels 🌱 
The comforting sound of a breeze, carrying one’s thoughts to a calmer place…we need more of that. (For some reason, I haven’t been receiving your posts in my inbox…I need to figure that out!)..xxx
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Certainly do. Thanks, too, for the note about notifications. Same here with some – but not all – of the blogs I follow. I’ll check my end too. I do know that I’m always thrilled to receive notification of your posts! Have a super day xx
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