The joy of England’s country roads,
Those rivers made of stone.
Where great adventures first begin,
And minds are free to roam.
The leafy canopies above,
The fields beyond the hedge,
Where squirrels hide to spy on us
From the tarmac edge.
Here the trees are tightly packed,
In twisty, twiggled knots,
By cottages with mossy hats,
And weeping figs in pots.
The charming village pubs we pass,
Complete with red phone boxes,
And then we’re back by open fields,
with badgers, bees and foxes.
We pull into a farmyard lane,
And park up for a while,
Then stretch our legs out on the path
through cornfields to a stile.
Those pretty little English lanes,
Where wild flowers grow,
Taking us from where we are,
To where we want to go.