Blue, Bell.

As a girl, I would often take trips with my grandparents to a place where anything could be imagined. In Clent Hills, vibrant Red Indians called out to grubby pirates, and songs from musicals were sung and left to drape over branches of great-grandfather trees.

My favourite memory of this place, is that of the mossy ground beneath a canopy of green - where blankets of bluebells stitched together. Still a little blonde creature, I thought I had never seen anything so beautiful, and never would again. I felt I could be sure the nymphs and sprites were swooping in and out the patches of sunlight, and could be heard talking with hoopla (about these humans treading down their ground) amongst the woodlice beneath the damp bark of logs and the parasols of bluebells.