We decided we would cross over to a part of the ravine whose trails used to be a regular part of our daily circuit. But that was many years ago. And in that interval of years many of the narrow, winding trails we viewed as our secret byways used by few others have simply disappeared. Not as a result of lack of use. That area has been considerably urbanized nearby the ravine in the intervening years.

The trails are no longer there because the hillsides have over time slumped and taken the trails with them into the ravine below. So we didn't venture down into the depths of the ravine where we so often did in the past, staying above on higher ground. When we first began trekking in that area there were two giant pine trees standing close to one another.

One had been hit by lightening about a decade later and part of the top fell. Over the succeeding years what was left of the tree gradually succumbed until its corpse remained standing there, aloof, alone, stark. When we went by yesterday all that was left lay prostrate on the ground, and in the final stages of complete rot. Its companion, however, still stood. Unlike the first one which stood out in the open, the second one grew in the midst of trees within the forest and there it continues to thrive.

Jackie and Jillie were absolutely enthralled at our decision to venture into a different area, and took the occasion to express their joy at visiting a part of the ravine they scarcely recall though we'd taken them there a few times before over the years. They scampered happily everywhere, viewing it all as a new adventure. They've often seen people and other dogs coming up the long hill leading to the area we now re-introduced them to, so it's not as though they weren't aware it existed, just that it represents a strange, and different part of the ravine to them. They ran happily about everywhere.

It's not as extensive as the portions of the ravined forest we regularly take to, but it is a diversion. The vegetation that grows there is somewhat different than where we're more likely to have taken them and that can be interesting, for us, in any event. But not yesterday. It all looked fairly unregenerated as yet.

While still on our usual trails we were on the lookout for flowering spring treats. Yellow flowers won't bloom without sun and there wasn't much sun yesterday though it was a truly beautiful day. Little wind to speak of and a mild temperature of 14C, with occasional sunny intervals. The coltsfoot are still in bloom but looking a little peaked. We really wanted to see if there were any trout lilies blooming.

There are now widespread colonies of trout lilies, and more lilies-of-the-Valley than I've ever seen before. The cooler weather notwithstanding, the copious rain we've experienced this spring must surely have had a hand in that. I expect we'll see more jewelweed this summer than in previous years, and for the same reason.

As things turned out, we did indeed come across a few trout lilies in bloom; bright little shy yellow flowerheads, sideways-turned, as though blushingly regarding the forest floor. It's always a delight to see them. They'd make quite a showing if as many flowers bloomed among them as plants proliferate themselves; why most plants are devoid of flowers and a relative few boast them is a puzzle. And the same has been true of wild lilies-of-the-Valley.

We were also gratified to come across trilliums in bloom. Not many, but they're starting. The red trilliums seem to bloom before the white ones, and we'll give it another week or so before we go looking on the hillsides for the presence of white trilliums.

When we arrived back home yesterday afternoon from our ravine ramble, I noticed the emergence of a tiny trillium I'd planted last year, a yellow one of all things. It had raised itself above the soil under the protection of a weeping Mulberry tree where I'd planted it after my husband came home with it from a plant nursery.

I was hoping it would persevere and return. But I found it had been pulled out of the soil, so I tucked it securely back in, gently tamping the garden soil around it. When I went out to have a brief look around the garden this morning, it was no longer there.