Somewhere between 2132 2233 you’ll find the spot.
by Andrew Young
I did not think nest-hiding spring
Could have so sharp a sting;
Where blossom from the wild pear shakes
Too rare a china breaks;
O spring, turn back,
Where hope still droops by the rain-driven track
That thrush that notes the passer-by
With beadlike eye,
Is she not warming with her breast
A brood to rob her nest,
While cuckoos shout
The name they will forget ere June is out?
I watched on olive-coloured ash
Buds like an inky splash;
Those black eyes turn to jealous green;
I would not so be seen.
Spring, turn or stay,
For once too often will you come this way.
This is a Tin. This is a gold half sovereign.
I have hidden this tin. I’ll leave a series of clues. Finders keepers.
It could be in anywhere in the UK – but this post will give you enough clues to work out the country and county.
The men that live in North England
I saw them for a day:
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,
Their skies are fast and grey;
From their castle-walls a man may see
The mountains far away.
The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong,
A-rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves along.
They have the secret of the Rocks,
And the oldest kind of song.
But the men that live in the South Country
Are the kindest and most wise,
They get their laughter from the loud surf,
And the faith in their happy eyes
Comes surely from our Sister the Spring
When over the sea she flies;
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet,
She blesses us with surprise.
I never get between the pines
But I smell the Sussex air;
Nor I never come on a belt of sand
But my home is there.
And along the sky the line of the Downs
So noble and so bare.
A lost thing could I never find,
Nor a broken thing mend:
And I fear I shall be all alone
When I get towards the end.
Who will there be to comfort me
Or who will be my friend?
I will gather and carefully make my friends
Of the men of the Sussex Weald;
They watch the stars from silent folds,
They stiffly plough the field.
By them and the God of the South Country
My poor soul shall be healed.
If I ever become a rich man,
Or if ever I grow to be old,
I will build a house with deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold,
And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
And the story of Sussex told.
I will hold my house in the high wood
Within a walk of the sea,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me.