Nothing quickens the blood like a beech forest in May.
Perhaps it’s just me, but something about the beechy shade of green pairs particularly well with the limpid May sunshine.
Beech is a gregarious sort of a tree and the avenues are sprinkled with holly and oak, as well as the last of the bluebells.
Up above, caterbugs put on aerial acrobatics from fine strands of trapeze webbing anchored to the leaves.
Down below, the ground is crunchily paved with last year’s fallen beechnuts, every one industriously cracked by the squirrels who are always darting out of sight.
You get the feeling that the beech, queen of the forests, enjoys life with a lightness of touch.