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Stepping over the remnants of the tulips and slowl

Stepping over the remnants of the tulips and slowly inflating with bicycle pump efficiency.

Monday with its mackerel sky and musings from the

Monday with its mackerel sky and musings from the geese.

The month just so, until passed an imaginary thres

The month just so, until passed an imaginary threshold. A tipping point somewhere in May beyond which the gallop overtakes the trot and the notches on the height chart rapidly advance by the day.

The cow parsley in full voice.

The cow parsley in full voice.

The weather has played a hard and fast ‘loves me

The weather has played a hard and fast ‘loves me, loves me not’ game with the tulips - plucking petals at random until there is nothing but stalk. Strewn casualties now enveloped by the advancing stride of woad and peonies and the puff and petal of June rising.

There were good intentions at the beginning of all

There were good intentions at the beginning of all of this, even a grand plan to shoehorn some extra creativity into the day. But, while there’s a lot to be said for keeping busy, there’s also something to be said for not. For watching and for listening, and for noticing the minutiae often drowned out by the din of the everyday. Like the mist in the early morning, the sort that gently hovers just above the grazing line of the trees, and the steam bath effect as it rolls across the water. Advection fog, I think. Little things, but also big things, their ephemeral shadow puppetry bookending the day but also providing a ballast in the landscape of everything else.

The countryside has donned its billowing skirts an

The countryside has donned its billowing skirts and channelled its inner Jane Austin. Voluminous thickets of cow parsley not to be outdone by the rapid pace of ascent in May. What was ankle height now waist height and the plimsoll line of the dew ingrained just above the line of the welly boot.

It’s not one to be rushed and always bides it’

It’s not one to be rushed and always bides it’s time. Maybe waiting for the tulips to sashay off sideways.

It’s not the dates in the diary marking out the

It’s not the dates in the diary marking out the weeks, but the number by their side. One, two...seven and now eight metaphorically chalked on the wall as a tally. The froth and babble of the season a distraction and a balm, with nature too wrapped up in its own chatter to take much notice of the headlines. A constant and a thread throughout, with an absorbing rhythm that drums out a different beat. The feet falling into step with it and the mind following.

The temperature seems undecided. Clambering up and

The temperature seems undecided. Clambering up and down the chords of its own arpeggio, plucking at the petals of the tulips in their last gasp.

To really know someone is so much more than a slew

To really know someone is so much more than a slew of facts. Understanding their quirks and nuances, both standing tall or casually disheveled. May is arguably the best time to get to know tulips. Still dressed in their silken garb, but more relaxed by the day - with an end of the evening swagger about themselves, and in the mood to dance.

May dressed in its finest bunting, and the lanes d

May dressed in its finest bunting, and the lanes decked in cow parsley, campions and bluebells, a botanical billow of red, white and blue. Stuffed in jugs for the last street party that was, and moved around the table, and even further, when its ‘scent’ proved a little too much.

A softly softly morning.

A softly softly morning.

May suddenly seems at odds with April. Not that Ap

May suddenly seems at odds with April. Not that April was much like April. An April without any April showers. Very un-April. So the rain, when it came, seemed so very other. Bringing with it a shift in air pressure; a blanket piled on top of woollens, sleep a little harder to come by but the countryside gurgling with appreciation.

Understanding meadows is understanding patterns. T

Understanding meadows is understanding patterns. The random scatterings of wildness that @joshua_sparkes likens to the story telling approach to design. The three stages in an approach that’s much like a story that evolves with each turn of the page. From a distance one scheme, but as you begin to get closer, the diversity builds, opening up even further with the next step forward. There’s a photo somewhere of him chin deep in the wild meadows of Crete. More ‘botanising’ than holidaying, or maybe more ‘meadowing’ going by the look of complete and utter absorbtion. Tradition dictates that when the hay rattle rattles it’s time to mow. But pushing that date further into August and September means more common spotted orchid meadows and a field of dreams.

The days have become weeks, and another month has

The days have become weeks, and another month has slipped by. Dates somewhere lost in place of time now measured in bundles of the new normal. Spring the one constant in all of this, so comforting to stumble across a description that captures a mood so perfectly - distilling six weeks of a full pendulum swing of thoughts and emotions, into something so simple - it’s any wonder it didn’t seem obvious before. Skin hunger: the human touch of the everyday beyond the screen.

Away from the strut and prance of Spring, there’

Away from the strut and prance of Spring, there’s an altogether quieter beauty. Green winged orchids in the long grass. Pink and purple petalled, but so called because of the colour of their veins. A pinch of wild to soften any punch that May delivers.

There are two types of wardrobe in late April and

There are two types of wardrobe in late April and early May. The verdant and chartreuse worn by the countryside, and the colour palette offered up by tulips: a strutting catwalk of pinks and purples linking arms with orange, in a vibrant sashay, undimmed even after a few bouts of rain. Weaving the colour into Spring is never an exacting science and, for @joshua_sparkes , inspiration can come from the most unlikely of sources (a pair of old curtains from memory one Spring). But this years has been a mixture of tried and tested work horses - Negrita, and a trial of something new - Pieter de Leur and Moonblush. With a few handfuls of Thalia for scented step.

Words seem to matter more than ever. Spoken at a d

Words seem to matter more than ever. Spoken at a distance, virtually or otherwise, or written down. Anecdotes and stories pored over and wrung dry, and even the most incidental elevated beyond its usual happenstance. Hence a diary of sorts. To record what we did, what we saw, and what we felt - if only as a reminder of the season that was, but also the season that wasn’t.

The rain came. Flushing out the freshness in the a

The rain came. Flushing out the freshness in the air. An intoxicating smell of damp wrung from a parched ground. ‘Mossiness’ and ‘ferns’ and ‘earthiness’ to an untrained nose, but a potent perfume of petrichor all the same.

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