When the sun stays up late and the flowers reach out to touch the sky, when daddy-longlegs paint the air with notes sung by the bees and the owl watches from her tree in silent benediction of the birds circling her perch, a peculiar magic flows through our meadows and woods, over hill and dale, as we come near Midsummer Night.

It’s no great leap of imagination to find the strangest, tiniest creatures dancing above creeks in droplets of reflected light over water rolling past ancient oaks with twisted branches posed for their partner’s embrace.

When the light fades westwards, tinting the valleys in pastel hues, the lanes meander from day to night with fancy robed gentlemen strutting along to find a partner for a reel.