The drive onto Dartington Farm takes you across a dam wall, through a pocket of nature that feels untouched and unchanged – totally itself and at ease. The dam is alive — birds calling from the bulrushes, wings skimming lightly across the water with the comings and the goings, and all the while the ducks have to work a little harder as they paddle through thick aquatic weeds. Red bishops flash bright among the reeds, and every now and then a yellow-crowned bishop clings there too, adding its voice to the cacophony of bird song.
Two willow trees stand sentinel at the head of the dam, quietly watching over every arrival and departure. Crooked and bent by nature. Below, the land softens into a marsh, while the mist pulls itself low across the hills, slicing the landscape horizontally, hiding whatever lies above and beyond.
On the slope, beef cattle graze calmly — almost dreamlike — half-shrouded in the morning haze. The mist has its own way of turning the everyday into something enchanted.
And in the rye grass, a lone tree stands, steady and sure…
Pink Farm Chick 