I never know which time of year I prefer more: when the woods are full of bluebells, or now, when the stubble fields are scattered with straw bales. The two times of year frame the summer, my favourite season, although spring isn't far behind.
Mournful and poignant though this time of year can be, as summer turns to autumn, and new things are considered, and that back to school feeling settles in everyone's stomachs, nothing beats a good straw bale, especially the large round ones, onto which you have to take a run and a jump to hop. The dog tries to scramble up too, sometimes he's successful, and other times he stalks away, ignoring my calls, refusing to try again, as if he didn't want to be up there in the first place. Oh little dog. He's so silly.
There's something rather wonderful about the scratches on your legs, and just being able to sit atop a bale and view the world.
And of course then there's the fun of trying to get the bale to roll over.
When we were little, we would sit on the top, and wait for the bale to be pushed, with us on top, and this was better than any other game we could have played. My dad would park his pick up so that we could climb straight out the back onto the bales, and he pushed several together, which caused hours of endless fun. Of course, this is something I know not many people will have been lucky enough to do, but oh, it's the best. Nothing beats it.
Nothing like the simple things, hey?