In praise of wild strawberries

I used to dream about this while living and working in London: a sun-drenched forest clearing, absolutely still with not a breeze, no sound except the low hum of insects and bursts of birdsong, and everything totally drenched with the sweet smell of fresh forest grass, moss, and mulch - with the high 'note' of wild strawberries. And here it is. Can any taste compare to a handful of these tiny berries that positively explode with fragrance as you bite into them?
The old lady that used to live at the Lake house before we took it over left some garden strawberry plants in old wooden tubs for beds. They, too, are cropping now, and I am most grateful for that. But (at least as far as I am concerned) nothing, nothing can compete with the feast for the senses that is the gift of the forest.