Sunday. A heavy, blustery day with a chill in the air: a second cup of coffee, heating on, yesterday's paper. A day of drop-offs and pick-ups, cooking, washing, paperwork. A quiet lethargy, a restless discontent. And yet - the bluebells are out, up in the woods, just a mile from here. Another week and they might be gone for another year. Too good to miss. So, in between one drop off and another pick up, we - my husband, our youngest, and I - grab our coats and head up to the woods, ready to dodge the rain. First, we find a stick, and then another - the longer the better. It's a light sabre, a heavy weight, a javelin. Muddy knees, a play fight, a scramble on fallen branches. The echoed barking of dogs. The sharp scent of wild garlic. The astonishing, luminous green of beech leaves hovering over the vibrant, purple haze. Yellow gorse against dark trees; a stack of rough-sawn logs, a scout hut. Our senses, alive. And suddenly, in this moment, we are happy.