As we climb to the top of Nattadon Hill, there are bluebells everywhere, lining the path and peaking up shyly from the cover of bracken.

At the top of the hill is a bluebell field, the color so delicate among the green than my camera barely registers it...but to the eyes, it's a cloud of blue; and to the nose, an extraordinary perfume. Tilly crosses the hilltop, wading through flowers. Then she sits on a rock, looking down on the village and the rise of open moorland beyond.

Soon we will have to head down towards home, but for now we just sit and absorb it all: beauty, magic, light, wind, sun. The raw materials for art-making, myth-making, story-telling. Food for the soul.