the ancient packhorse bridge over the river Clun at Valley's End.
I have decided that I must try not to complain about the English weather so much. True, it was raining today and the skies were of that unfriendly grey which lowers the spirits and gives rise to grumbling, but we have had some wonderful late March and early April sunshine. Besides, mild rain makes my garden grow!
When I saw a recent post at Ellen's blog showing pictures of a wisteria already past its prime, roses and a mock orange in full bloom, I felt glad to live in England, where the seasons come in slowly, one after the other, taking their time unfolding, lingering over each new arrival and spreading the glorious riches of nature for all to savour. Each flower has its moment of triumph in the sun, there is room and time to spare; only in high summer do they jostle each other for attention.
Even winter has its upside. The intricate patterns of the bare branches of trees and colourful stems of shrubs dramatise a drab world which for several years lately has turned brilliant, sparkling white and glittering, jewel-like ice for weeks on end.
Let May and June welcome the spectacular hanging chains of wisteria on house fronts, give the mock orange time in June and July to spray its intoxicating perfume and as for roses, well, give the queen of the garden four or five months to dazzle the senses, all the time from first flowering in early June to October. In a good year I have had the last roses bloom into December.
At the moment spring flowers are the stars of the show, among others
tiny blue grape hyacinths
and a host of daffodils nodding in the breeze.
Give me my English seasons, weather included. The poet Robert Browning, in his 'Home Thoughts From Abroad', said "O to be in England, now that April's here". He has a point.
This entry nods a distant 'hello' to the many other entries at My World.