I could have kept quiet, but the early evening breeze ruffling the feathers of a field of pale gold looked so appealing, I was moved to remark on it.
"It looks so soft. I wonder if it feels fluffy," I said, or something similar.
I'd already been disappointed once on the walk, half-falling down a bank to check the perfume of a wanton pretty white rose, only to find it was virtually non-existent.
Why hadn't I just admired it from afar?
The face-value approach to anything, with the help of a little imagination to fill any pesky gaps in the picture, is likely to be more satisfying than the real thing.
So it was when I gazed upon that stunning "Ooooooohhhhhhhhhhh" photograph published in this newspaper of Barack Obama and his wife Michelle at one of the 10 inaugural balls they attended last week.
What did it show? Two beautiful people delightedly gazing into each other's eyes.
A couple, clearly at ease with one another, sharing an intimate moment.
Of course, it wasn't just any two beautiful people, but the new President of the United States and the First Lady - the first African-American couple to make it to the White House.
Was the moment that intimate either? The power of the photograph allowed us to overlook the presence of a bevy of secret service men no doubt intently watching not too far away, along with whoever else had a long enough neck or lens.
Since the couple was only shown from the chest up, it was easy to imagine them blissfully dancing the night away like something out of Cinderella, minus the bits involving metamorphosis.
That particular photograph did not capture the reported difficulty the new president had negotiating his feet around the train of the First Lady's dress, although there were some that did. Dancing is not his forte, apparently.
Some reports of past inaugural balls suggest they have all the charm of a scrum, without the rugby.
Social secretary in the Kennedy White House Letitia Baldridge, quoted in an article in USA Today before George W. Bush's inauguration, dented any notion of glamour.
"You'll be jammed and pushed and shoved. You won't be able to sit down. It's terrible on your feet."
She gave the sensible advice to leave the stiletto heels at home and take your sneakers, putting them on once you got there "because no-one is going to see your feet". Some photographs of previous presidential couples dancing have been revealing.
Laura, wife of the hapless George W. Bush, was shown smiling relentlessly on while her husband was pulling idiotic faces.
I found a shot where they were dancing cheek-to-cheek, where he looked vaguely sane, but Laura's face was not visible.
My imagined possibilities for her expression were a half-sleepy gentle, but stoic smile or something akin to a brief grimace.
I desperately wanted to choose the latter, even though it seemed out of character.
Bill and Hillary Clinton were shown looking out to the audience rather than each other in ball shots I saw, but perhaps the most famous dancing shot of that pair is the beach one.
This staged event showed them dancing on a Caribbean beach in their togs when the Monica sex scandal was about to blow - what was that supposed to show; that Hillary's cellulite and blue swimsuit were more attractive than Lewinsky in her soiled frock of a similar hue, and what woman in her right mind would find the pudgy president sexy, with or without his baggy swim shorts?
Hillary was gazing (adoringly?) up at Bill and he was looking at her eyes.
Quite what he saw was anyone's guess because she was wearing sunglasses. How telling.
That shot could not show what was about to happen next.
We cannot tell from the Obamas' picture how long the smiles will hold. We have no inkling of what rain will fall on them privately and publicly and how much of it will be acidic.
But last week somehow that picture summed up the couple's and the world's excitement about their new status.
I am happy to hold the hope of their picture for a while yet. Similarly, I would have been content to just gaze upon the fluffy field.
My companion did not appreciate that, and, despite my protestations, leapt over the fence to pluck a stem for me to examine.
There was nothing fluffy about it. It was sharp and spiky to protect its seed, which appeared to be some type of wheat.
I tried to console myself by munching some, but a piece got stuck in my throat, causing me to cough and splutter my way home.
No photograph could have adequately captured that.
-Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
