Lucky horseshoes arch their back towards the sun, and across flint-faced walls, the wild roses run.
From the village green look up!
Smell the heather-sand scent drifting from the lowland heath where bees dance around purple bells.
Hear the whispering of wind in green leaves of ancient trees that sigh together in shaded woods.
Feel the cool freshness of clear water giggling down chalk streams.
See the rolling downs, rise up, encircle.
See the sheep grazed turf, remember the blue flowers of rampion or the scent of sun warmed thyme, and go!
Let the bustle of the town fall far behind, quieted, soothed. Climb the hills, the flint chalk where yew trees cling, the thorn tree dotted higher ground, to the bare whale backed humps of Kipling speak.
Turn on the spot, feel the soft air all around, the sun above and the earth beneath your feet and drink deep of skylark song.
Gaze across your county spread wide below, where six golden Martlets fly, on a background of bluest sky.