The Best View in England

that’s what she said. Of course, I begin to find fault: a shrub partly obscures the view, there’s a glint of car windows and, if I listen hard enough, I sense the thrum of traffic. I’ll admit the colours are strong, mid-summer: yellows of wheat-fields, oaky greens, and the hills’ hazed blue. A single cloud hovers off-centre, elders waft, sheep bleat, swallows jaunt. Yes, it’s lovely. But the Best View?     It’s like someone telling you their top three films. You’ll disagree. Instantly. Plus, there isn’t a river, the valley could be deeper, the blue bluer.    Had she not said a thing, I’d have sat here, quietly smug, feeling I’d discovered this place, would have gone home, told everyone I’d found the Best View in England.