Today, to assuage my melancholy or perhaps to indulge it, I took a slight detour on the way home from my mother's house in order to visit the wood in Otterbourne where we scattered my father's ashes in 2005. The land belongs to the Woodland Trust, and when he died I gave them some money in his memory - enough to care for an acre there in perpetuity. I'd not been for couple of years, though, and never in May. It's a pleasant spot, where the blackbird's song mingles with the not-so-distant rumble of the M3, and where Charlotte Yonge no doubt walked arm in arm with John Keble many and many a day. (Now they lie in neighbourly repose in nearby Otterbourne churchyard.)
Anyway, when I found the right glade I discovered - much to my surprise - that my father had turned into a bluebell wood!