this has been a spring like no other but not because the sun has been shining
What follows is a compilation of fragments written or thought about as we wend our way through early spring. Too short and disjointed as individual posts, the final compilation proved too unwieldy. In the spirit of compromise – one post in three parts.
The photos are from an evening walk mid-May when everywhere glowed pink as the light faded. Pink – the colour of compassion and understanding.
It came as no surprise to learn that in the UK, May 2020 has been the sunniest and driest for over a century. May is one of my most favourite months. I began, mid-month, waxing lyrical to myself on the glories of the wildflowers and the Cornish spring – for surely this has been the earliest spring and the most marvellous year for the flowers? Then I noticed drafts of posts from past years, some published, some not, but all centred around the wonderful month of May and how this year or that year has brought forth one of the finest Mays I’ve seen. It gave me pause for thought. Is there really a need for yet another paean to this most beautiful moment in our calendar? Continue reading “The View from Here: walking in the writer’s footsteps (part 1)”
And perhaps today – when it is indeed much improved outside, though maybe not quite scintillating – perhaps all of that was still in my head …
With June has come summer. With June has come rain. It rained relentlessly yesterday. Thus, I was surprised to experience a delightful happiness and contentment driving along the drizzly road in the morning, gazing at the subdued greenery and grey skies. I thought of the beauty of the countryside even on this dark, damp and drab day. I thought of cosiness and warmth and how fortunate I am to have a dry home to return to. And how fortunate I am to be traveling through this verdant and ever-changing landscape. Today hushed and muted; tomorrow perhaps, scintillating and radiant. Continue reading “The View from Here: thoughts in the June rain”
I shall try to remember the message of the trees.
“Yes, the estate remains open until dusk. But I’m afraid the bluebells are almost over.” The National Trust staff member looked genuinely crestfallen that we had perhaps made a futile journey. I wondered too. Had we left it too late? Not in the time of day – I had deliberately chosen late afternoon just as the main house and gardens were closing – but in waiting so late into the spring? The bluebells have been magnificent this year; we still had plenty at home. But had I left it too late to see them in their true glory – massed amidst spring woodlands? Continue reading “The View from Here: in nature’s cathedral”
As I researched the details of what happened at Aberfan, I realised this was a historical story with a deeply urgent contemporary resonance: a story of what can happen when a community is run by a corporation.
On Friday 21st October 1966 a slag heap shifted. It slid inexorably towards a small mining village in South Wales, destroying several houses and at least one farm. The worst hit building was Pantglas Junior School. In total, 144 people were killed. 116 of them were children. The name of the village was Aberfan.
I remember this disaster; I was a contemporary of the children in that school. I remember the shock waves and the disbelief and later, the country’s sadness. I would have been nine years old. Continue reading “The Green Hollow by Owen Sheers: How to talk about it”
My Welsh spider’s lattice trembles with the passion of those fighting to preserve a native tongue.
Margaret’s weekly prompt for ragtag Saturday is ‘tracery’. In words and photographs, she offers us nature, pared back to the bones. Like Margaret, I take much from the skeletal branches of winter trees. When I think of tracery I think of intricate and often irregular pathways: interlocking, overlaying. Tracery is embodied by the slumbering arterials of naked branches against a winter sky. Continue reading “Dewithon Diary ii: Welsh Tracery”
And in making her choice, the squirrel – generous squirrel – has granted me the opportunity to join her at her table.
This morning I watched a squirrel, sleek and plump. The squirrel and I are at eye level. We are each intent upon breakfast: I, dallying safe in my warm kitchen in our inverted home built from bricks and glass, cocooned and disconnected from what it really means to be in the throes of life, and he, moving freely in a habitat more suited to his wild and precious nature where every sight, sound and smell weaves a story in his brain about how to survive. He is intent on his task and seemingly oblivious to my silent presence, tidied away behind the glass and safely distanced from those sensory signals that shout ‘danger’. Continue reading “The View from Here: a tentative return”
Turning away, I returned to the robins in the sunshine and pondered for a while on the lives playing out around me… We intersect, but how rarely we connect.
We parked away from the main car park on our last visit to Lanhydrock, opting instead for the smaller and nearer car park at Respryn.
It was a sparkling bright winter’s day. The holly was polished to perfection and there were robins in abundance. This bold little fellow caught my eye. Continue reading ““You reading this, Be ready””
I’d like to bottle this autumn and bring it out to smell and savour whenever I need to stop and slow down and remember all that is good in this world.
It has been a languorous autumn. Long, slow and peaceful. Bright, crisp, sunny days only occasionally demarcated by a grey no-weather day or a day of relentless rain. Frosty mornings. Stunningly beautiful star-spangled velvet skies. Continue reading “The View from Here: autumn in a bottle”
…the sky streaks with softest blush and ribboned strands flutter out across the heavens. The bright moon bathes in a sky-bath of pink roses.
Living just a few hundred miles further west than we were means the sun rises and sets about 15 minutes later than I’ve been used to. I wouldn’t have expected this to make much of a difference but it does. Already the mornings seem very much darker than I remember in autumns past. And I like it. I’m enjoying waking up in the dark; the bed warm and cosy; the bedroom chilly, making it that little bit easier to stay wrapped in the duvet. If I’m lucky, Harri will be still sleeping quietly somewhere on the bed. It’s a good time for letting my thoughts drift drowsily; a good time for gratitude. The world is waking up; the whole day stretches before me: Continue reading “The View from Here: mist and morning moons”