It's getting more and more difficult to deny the fact that I'm a country girl at heart. And weekends knee-deep in ruralness only provide more evidence for the case.
I love London. Really I do. Her narrow and chaotic streets; acres of stretched out wild green slapped straight on city sprawl; and her hundreds of overflowing pubs where punters perch, pints in hand, on the curb edges.
But the truth is that my hands ache to be in the soil and my feet long to climb hills. I want to make friends with the local birds, and have a big fat grumpy cat which likes to sleep on my feet in the winter time.
For the moment however, I sustain myself on small bites of countryside, like last weekend in Yorkshire. Where the farmers had just finished haymaking, and the moors were painted in a deep purple hue.
(View from Roseberry Topping - if you look closely you can see the seemingly teeny-tiny bales of hay)