I am frequently entranced by the cattle in the fields bordering the old railway track. This is probably because in my pre-school years I had the freedom of a field of cows beyond our back garden fence in Devon. They presented no worries to me then, at three or four years old. I love the way the young steers study you and then cautiously but so deliberately walk towards you. I was fascinated at Towersey by two of these cattle who had left their little group and had their heads over the barbed wire to strip the verge of long wild grass and of cleavers, in great straggly tufts, and meadowsweet, including the flowers. They were clearly finding these wild herbs quite delicious. I love this old railway track with its long views of the hills and the wild roses, pink and white, profuse among the hawthorn and blackthorn of the hedges, the horse daisies and the poppies. Alongside the path the long grass has been mown throwing up a delicious herby scent. This afternoon in the garden I watched the white clouds form and re-form against the blue above me. At these times I have a whisper of a sense of a memory of a beauty, somewhere in the past, which may, simply,have been foreshadowing this. Paradise is a garden and, for me, a garden in England. It’s also a field of quietly browsing cattle against the westering, sun where misty gold infuses all the horizon. There is still hunger and thirst and aches and pains and worries and disappointment. I said the Gloria. In Christ I trust we will be at peace in paradise. Here it is too but a sense of peace eludes me yet.