trumpets of prophecy

Last weekend, the UK had the hottest August Bank Holiday on record. Presumably that means it was also the hottest Bank Holiday of all on record, as I can’t imagine it ever getting hotter for the other dates – Christmas, New Year, Easter, or either of the holiday Mondays in May.

But even if it was lovely and sunny, it did seem a little late in the year for perfect rose buds like the one at the start of the post.
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bee-long days

I guess this is a typical British summer: after another short “heatwave” last week, we’ve just had a weekend of almost continuous rain.

At the start of the week, the world was a multi-coloured blaze of flowers and the buddleia-scented air was busy with butterflies and bees.

But this weekend it’s been cold and grey, and even the feathers, bells and face paints of the local folk festival have done little to brighten the atmosphere.
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too early

I realised this morning that it’s been a long time since I went for a walk. That’s not to say I have been shut up indoors. Nor that I have been entirely sedentary: I may not complete my 10,000 steps each day, but I actually do walk quite a lot.

But taking the short-cut across the park in a rush to catch a train, racing off to the bus station, or scurrying round the supermarket in a lunch break don’t really count as going for a walk. Nor does tottering in high heels from the bus stop up the mile-long drive of a country hotel to attend a business meeting, however rural the setting and however much wildlife one sees en route. (I’ve noticed that many such hotels are on bus routes, though I’m pretty sure the guests don’t use pubic transport; I assume it’s so the staff can get there without them needing to be able to afford to run a car.)
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May Day

Of course it’s not May Day at all: it’s just May Day bank holiday in the UK.

May Day itself should have been last week, but passed unnoticed and uncelebrated.

The hawthorn trees and bushes have been in flower for several weeks, so it’s tempting to think that “may is out” and that it’s time to don summer clothing. But given the almost icy temperatures we’ve had overnight again recently, I think we would be unwise to pack away our winter woollies quite yet.
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predictable

The problem with taking pictures of plants is that they tend to be the same ones every year. Especially as we are creatures of habit and we take the same routes to and from the same places on a regular basis.

But even though I see these yellow fields from the train window in spring and early summer every year, as I travel from Gloucester towards south Wales, they never cease to impress. So here they are again.

Yellow field. Rapeseed flowers. Canola

At least I suppose the light reflections and the stains on the train windows are probably different each year.

the same but different

March has been an odd month and although I did just remember to mention St David’s Day and the start of spring here on the blog, I was a bit late with both of them.

Today, of course, is Mother’s Day, and to tell the truth, I’ve been late with that, too. Sadly, even the fact that the clocks changed last night and we lost an hour hardly provides me with an excuse for failing to get a card posted to arrive in time at my mother’s house.
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spring is sprung

I find it impossible to see the signs of spring and not to want to take photographs and write poetry.

But springtime has been written about so often by poets that it’s become almost a cliché in its own right. Anyway, whether it’s due to global warming, geographical location or faulty memory, the seasons just don’t seem to be as clear cut as they used to be.
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