Mid May. What an exquisite time of year. Not long ago the lanes were lined with yellow daffodils and gaudy forsythia and then just as soon dotted with yellow dandelions. Now they are more subtly laced with blousy drifts of cow parsley, the precursor to all things good. The chestnut trees have been carrying their white candles with all their usual majesty and the hawthorns have washed the landscape with white. Laburnums are now the only splash of yellow on this natural canvas, the sweet-scented yellow gorse also having passed its prime. The pink blossoms have dropped, swept away in sharp May winds, while in the garden the yellow pom-poms of kerria are now absent and the sweet perfume of the yellow azaleas, their delicious perfume hanging heavily in still air, is fading fast. How quickly Mother Nature changes her clothes. It is like a game of grandmother's footsteps: turn away at your peril, or before you know it each fragment of the ever changing season will have crept up on you and, in the blink of an eye, it will have left as swiftly as it arrived, leaving you yearning for another year.