My Boy – Max – 9 years old today. He has been a member of my pack for nearly 8 years.
As Heidi cannot manage long walks, the boy and I have an occasional boys only day out.
This morning we had a ramble across the field to the next village.
This took us to one of the sources of the River Nene.
H.E. Bates reckoned the name of the river was a distortion of the word Nine – indicating the number of sources that fed into it.
The rooks assemble every evening in the trees round the village green then they fly off before dusk. I’ve often wondered where they go to. Could this be their rookery?
Passing fields of rapeseed and through gaps in the hedge . . .
before retracing our steps back to the village
and home once more