So, we're driving to the supermarket through a small village when I noticed some interesting looking sheep among daffodils in a small enclosure and, thinking that this made a very pretty scene, declared that I would stop on the way back and take a photograph.
A short while later, I duly stopped the car on the side of the main road, much to the disapproval of the teenagers.
'Really?!...you've stopped the car to take a photo of some sheep?!! I didn't think you were serious!!'
Me: 'Of course, look how handsome they are..there's some more round the corner, we'll stop there too...and some cows a bit further on.'
'OMG...you can NOT stop the car to photograph every single farm animal you see...we live in the country...we'll never get anywhere!!! Why are you so WEIRD??!!'
Of course, when the animals do something vaguely interesting, like the pheasant who then strutted out in front of the car, did some wild war dance, then sauntered back into the hedge, I'm fiddling with the camera, trying to stop the car rolling back down the hill and missed the shot!! Amid much laughter, I might add!
If anybody knows what breed of sheep they are, do please tell me. I think they are Suffolks but I could be very wrong!!
For those of you wondering about the title of this post and why it doesn't make much sense, its a line from the following poem by Keats.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
John Keats
