seasons in the sun

Given the fairly dreadful weather over the last couple of months, I’ve been trying to track down a half-remembered quotation to the effect that the worst winter ever was one summer in England.

In fact, I’ve found that the actual wording is, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” – a quotation often misattributed to Mark Twain – which doesn’t really fit the bill.
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looking up

I’m not sure exactly what variety the flowers in the top picture are, but I am pretty certain they belong to the campanula family.

It’s not the same variety as the ones that grew along the stone wall in the garden of my childhood home, whose flowers were much shallower – their delicate papery petals spread wide like fairy crinolines – but something about the shade of blue betrays their kinship. Those were were probably my favourite flowers; I learned the Latin name and never questioned its suitability.
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sporting blues

The first time I posted the poem 21st-century pugilist to the blog, I didn’t really have the right picture, so it was accompanied by a photo of the wrestler, Stan Roberts.

Now, though, I have a photo of the statue of Randolph Turpin, the boxer, so I think it’s a good time to re-post the poem, which was written in Spain around eight years ago:
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summery

There’s a big difference between the weather summary and summery weather, but today they seem to coincide, with quite a bit of sunshine expected and temperatures predicted to reach nearly 20º.

Hourly weather forecastThis isn’t at all the sort of weather I was used to when I lived in Spain, where summer was a dull aching red that lasted from March through to October: here in England, even the hottest days start off blue and fresh and daisy clean.
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earth day

When I posted about the Queen’s birthday a few hours ago, I had forgotten that today was Earth Day.

Having now remembered, I think perhaps this poem and pictures would have been more appropriate, so this weekend we’ll have an additional post.

(Only the top image was taken in Spain, and I’m not really sure that it was actually La Mancha, but that’s probably not that important.)
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the first cuckoo

Well, not actually a cuckoo as such, but a cuckoo flower.

March went out like a lamb and it’s been gloriously warm recently – so much so that I am afraid we have already had our summer – so I had begun to wonder what had happened to the April I know and love who provides us with such constantly changing weather that we are never short of a topic of conversation.
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signs and portents

There’s hazy sunshine this morning and I suspect that when I finally get ready and go out it will feel like spring.

I’m pretty sure, though, that the blossoms I photographed in full sunshine at lunchtime a couple of days ago will have been battered to a pulp by storms by now.

Even today, if I diddle around too long, fussing about what to wear and writing the blog etc., it’s quite possible that the weather will have changed completely and it will be bucketing down with rain and blowing a force ten gale.
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