NOT in rich glebe and ripe green garden only Does Summer weave her sweet resistless spells, But in high hills, and moorlands waste and lonely, The vast enchantment of her presence dwells. Wide sky, and sky-wide waste of thyme and heather, Perpetual sleepy hum of golden bees…
the cycling references are for Le Tour de France, which recently triumphed through Yorkshire and finally, mad cow, no, though …
