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It was a crisp, cold day in Spring, and down by the River Weaver, there were the signs of the season - trees in blossom, fresh green shoots, birds singing.
As I looked over the pool to where the Weaver valley rose up to the plateau, the blossoming trees and green grass looked like waves of new life, overwhelming the detritus of last summer's growth, whitening in the sun, which still lay around.