Today I went out for a walk in the park with my children, a local park which is both wild and curated. It was heading towards dusk, the sun’s rays were long and low and far-reaching, and though there were clouds in the distance, the promise of rain to come, it was pleasantly warm. We walked by the stream, past clouds of midges swirling over the slow flowing water. Carpets of bluebells past their prime competed with clusters of white pom-pom shaped flowers which gave off an onion-like scent. Buttercups bobbed in the breeze like a spillage of bright yellow paint, still flowing. We clambered up to the log throne and down again to where the water flowed over a weir. We crossed bridges and forded the stream in places where the path disappeared. On the path we stopped to take a closer look at an unusual bee. It was resting on the pathway, its body furred and barred not yellow and black but a pale cream and black and it seemed to pant there, on the path, as though it too had been busily exploring. We left it there, resting. Trees were climbed. We crossed grassy meadows. We had no plan, there was no direction and no purpose, we just walked and clambered and had a good time, out in the not entirely wild wilderness.