The blackthorn was in bloom, turning the hedge into a bridal procession. At my feet, the beck sang over gravel. In some places you can almost jump over this little river, but here at the cattle trod it is as wide as the line of four heifers standing drinking, hock-deep, nose to tail. A brown trout hung on the current, its belly speckled as the gravel bed below. On the far bank, the willows were in their first green flush.