Left the head gardener lawn-levelling after the pond re-fit.
I don’t remember bluebell woods as a child. Perhaps they hadn’t been invented then? Or perhaps I didn’t live near a wood. Or perhaps the soil conditions weren’t quite right?
At this time of year I imagine that I have some skill as a painter. A backwash of grey, horizontal stripes of green and mauve and vertical jabs of brown. A masterpiece in my mind, but never committed to paper.
Thoroughly immersed in Kent life, I now relish the changing seasons, as bluebells turn to asparagus.
A first for me: the Eastling Bluebell Walk in aid of church funds. Stopped for a sit down at the top of the hill and watched lots of Faversham friends puffing their way up in my footsteps. Somehow my one hour long walk took two and a half hours. Rewarded with a fantastic lunch at the village hall. The array of cakes and puddings was just amazing.
Such a shame that bluebells aren’t for picking. We have a few in the garden … and sometimes they just snap off as I walk past.
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