Not transferable . . .

Much as I'd like to, I can’t possibly offer you the essence of Westonbirt's Arboretum in a letter.

Oh yes, I can show you photos of the magnificent trees . . . the woodland glades. . . . the azaleas . . . the bluebells . . . but the true essence is not visual, nor, sad to say, can it be interpreted in words.

All I can tell you is where to look for it . . . in the birdsong . . . the scented air . . . the peace . . . the harmony . . . the timelessness . . .
In all those elusive, evocative, yet indescribable factors, dwells the essence of the Arboretum.

Such things can't be captured, far less transposed back to London. They are, individually and collectively, a part of life that is essential, but transient.
Who knows, perhaps it is that very transience that makes them so precious?
We fool ourselves that we can capture life on a CD, on a DVD, that we can package and lay claim to all the natural world has to offer.
What rubbish! There’s no way of bottling pure magic . . . and, thank heaven, there never will be!

I spent over four hours in the Arboretum. Sitting . . . gazing . . . strolling . . . and constantly marvelling. If I spoke to Rupert at all, it was in whispers. Anything louder would have disturbed . . . disturbed what? I can't name it any more than you can. But who could deny that something was there. Let's call it a presence. A presence that is found in a place where nature presides and man can add nothing of value, and only cause disruption.

Wait a moment, as I write that last sentence I realise that there is something that man can bring to the scene. Something that is our unique gift. True, the natural world doesn't need it, but we are immeasurably enriched by the giving.
Yes . . . you know what I'm going to say.
We can bring gratitude . . . wonder . . . and praise.

All of which, I promise you, Rupert and I gave by the bucketful!

A duck's diet?

Nothing important, just a story to make you smile when you've a spare moment.

Remember the pond . . . and the fish . . . and the heron who came to feed on them . . . and all the dramas and excitement? Well, there's been a new twist to this aquatic saga.

Rupert and I were sitting peaceably by the pond yesterday morning when, with a dramatic flurry of wings, a pair of mallards descended from a clear, blue sky and skidded to a halt amongst the duckweed!

Never before have we had mallards on the pond, but this pair were clearly seeking out a convivial new home.

Rupert licked his lips nervously. When little more than a kitten, he suffered the indignity of being chased by two peacocks in Holland Park. Ever since, not surprisingly, he has been highly respectful of all creatures with beaks. Cautiously . . . very cautiously . . . he advanced to the edge of the pond . . . but the ducks were unimpressed. Clearly pleased with this new venue, they carried out a careful investigation of the pond's amenities, then scrambled out and sat on the rim to preen.

This morning they were still here, and it seemed only right to tell my good friend Sacha.
Sacha, who is six, is very much my second-in-command when it comes to feeding the fish.
I told him about the ducks, and we stood by the pond, watching the antics of the colourful new arrivals.
"I hope they won't eat the fish," I said a little anxiously.
"Oh no," Sacha was keen to reassure me, "they won't do that. Ducks don't eat fish."
"What do they eat?" I asked him.
There was a long pause, and Sacha's reply, when it came, was delivered in a tone of calm and unquestionable authority.
"Ducks eat duck-food," he declared.

So now you know . . . there's no possible arguing with that!