There won’t be any cygnets this year. The cob was on the lake this morning on his own, occasionally slapping the water, floating without any evident purpose. His last children were taken away to new homes a year ago. His mate of years, the pen, died last spring.
People who live in the country always assume that no one in inner London has much idea of the seasons.
Disagree with half of it, enjoy reading all of it
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