Weekend Road Trip: An English Farm In The Village Of Hurst, Berkshire
Our friend Paul Beecroft, a coroner’s investigator in England, has taken us on some fascinating journeys in the past. Today he’s invited us to join him for a sneak peek at one of his favorite places in the English countryside, a farm in the Village of Hurst in Berkshire. This is the place where Paul can free his mind of a week of dealing with criminals, grief, and from seeing dead people. It is here, on this farm, where Paul walks his dog, flies his falcon, and leaves murder investigations to someone else, even if it’s only for a short time. Thank you, Paul, for sharing this portion of your life.
Golden Lace Orpington Cockerel
Loddon Lily Leucojum aestivum Sometimes known as the Summer Snowflake. Named after the River Loddon. A fairly rare plant. This is the only one on the whole of the Farm.
Dog Rose Rosa cania
‘Dax’ My black Labrador having a swim
Dax the Hurdler
Spring Lambs with Mum who has just been sheared
Tadpoles. The black mass is 100’s if not 1000’s of Tadpoles
Paul Beecroft, an avid falconer, has spent a good deal of his life in law enforcement, in England. He’s worked Foot Patrol, Area Car, Instant Response Car and also as a Police Motorcyclist. He’s currently a coroner’s investigator and has traveled all over England, Wales, Scotland and even Germany to investigate crimes.
Looks beautiful, Paul! There is something very special about the British countryside – I spent much of my childhood/youth in rural Somerset, and sometimes miss it acutely, particularly now that I’m city-locked.
Of course, your photos remind me of the deathless words of R. Browning:
Oh, to be in England
Now that April’s there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England – now!!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops – at the bent spray’s edge –
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children’s dower
– Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
Many thanks for your lovely replies. The photos were taken last weekend and some a few days before that. The change since then is quite incredible. One of the fields is now just a blaze of yellow as all the Buttercups have burst into bloom.
Thank you for sharing such happiness across the pond. Your photos have wreathed my face with a smile.
What a beautiful place. I can see why Paul enjoys spending time there.