For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth;
the time of singing has come,
and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land;
Song of Solomon 2, vs 11 & 12
King James Bible.
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8 comments:
I used to always look forward to spring; hated the cold & flu of winter. We dont have seasons as such down here. Nice to see the daffs as well; is that what we used to call "pussy willow" in pic 5?
The little fella is looking fit - is he a cross with that ginger?
Lovely thanks. Yes the blogdog is looking in top fettle.
Quite simply my favourite time of the year. Thanks for the gentle celebration, Mr. I.
And I must agree with Mike & BB, the little chap is looking in v. fine fettle. Not unlike some of the more hirsute members of the Highland cattle breeds, in fact :-)
Does Mr Harris not favour a coat? Not that dogs get much choice about it but I notice he is not wearing one.
I enjoyed that photo set - it is good to know that spring is happening inside the garden. Thank you.
It is just so affirming, the Spring, such a relief, as the scripture says. There are just daffs at the moment, the crocuses and snowdrops have been and gone, battered; tulips are peeping up but
there is nothing on the trees or hedges yet, save the - yes - pussy willow.
If they do nothing else useful, the farmers with their ploughs are heralds, same at harvest time with the big combos; I was sat, watching that one through the window from my desk, admiring his straight lines. He's very good, Keith, levelled and seeded the bottom garden for me when I first came here, charged me fifty quid, would've taken me years. I'll find the photos, they are on one of the computers, somewhere, scanned-in, from wet film. At that time I realised that this garden was as much agriculture as horticulture; I make and buy literally tons of compost and manure and there is never enough; I need big machines, diggers and chainsaws, I'd love a quad bike but I can't afford one. We have planted over a thousand daffs since last summer, and there were already thousands and thousands but they will spread and one day someone will wander among them,lonely as a cloud.
There are loads of tulips and we recently planted another couple of hundred, lupins and gladioli are next on the list for mass planting, God willing.
No, mr mike, Harris is proper Yorkie, he just hasn't had a haircut for eighteen months and the red is his undercoat, dander, is that what they call it?
Barney, my Beardie, we took him to a professional groomer - I normally did it myself with clippers but I wasn't too well at the time - he came back, fell out of the car and collapsed, he never recovered and he died three weeks later. Thereafter we did Buster ourselves and I'll get around to doing Harris, now that Spring is here.
Harris has inherited an extensive wardrobe from Buster and he does like to wear coats and pullovers and hi-vis jackets, mrs woar but yesterday was a warm day and the garden sheltered. He does, I assure you, don proper kit for a walk on his Lou, into the world of outside.
(rhyming slang, Lou Reed, lead)
My old man spent the winters of 1940 and 1941 billeted on Hoy; the darkest he ever knew. He loved the Orcadian spring too.
Manning the radio aerials on Hoy, it was said to be the worst British Army posting in the world. One bloke wrote to Churchill, begging to be sent to Burma, or dropped behind the lines on a sucide mission in Germany, anywhere but Hoy, yet Rackwick Bay, on a Summer's day is one of the most blessed places on Earth.
They were stationed in twos, at the masts, and grew so bored with each other that when the officer came, weekly, with supplies and codes and what-not, they would do anything to keep him there, ccok for him, sing for him, offer to boil him water for a bath, sabotage his vehicle.
After the sinking of the Royal Oak, early in the war, nothing happened here. And it still hasn't.
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