'…all around the blooming heather, will you go lassie go?'
I’m overcome by the colours just now, the hills clad in the most glorious array or purples and hot pinks. The heather has a beautiful slightly woody, with a hint of honey sweetness, scent. I’ve picked it, photographed it, pressed and admired it and still, nothing quite captures the beauty of it.
Photo credit © S. Marian, the hills, somewhere between Portree and Sligachan.
Oh, the summer time is coming,
And the trees are sweetly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
Grows around the blooming heather.
Will you go, lassie, go?
(Attributed to Tannahill or McPeake, I’m not taking sides. Photo credit, click here
Bluebells in Broadford, looking toward Scalpay.
(Broadford, Isle of Skye.)
Algy travelled on a little further, until he reached a spot overlooking the old castle in the great sea loch. Huge masses of golden gorse covered the headland, so he decided to make a bed out of the soft, perfumed flowers. That night Algy dreamed of a tropical island, full of the exotic fragrance of spiced coconut!
Oh Algy, you are a robust fellow to be among the prickly gorse!
Seathrift on the rocks at Elgol, Isle of Skye.
Why? Are you wondering why I have placed these two images side by side. For those who enjoy symbolism you are possibly smirking, or those of a Freudian turn of mind, you will find much meaning to derive from this. Actually, I put it together for the colours, a combination I love, purple and green. I have a dining room painted in strong purple and lime green, it sounds hideous but really, it’s not. This purple is more plum, the green quite muted and it works well in nature and also on the scarf. How I would love to have that scarf, that piece of history. Why is it that every time I think of suffragettes, I think of the Mother character in Mary Poppins? I should be telling you about the flower, what it is - I have no idea but isn’t it fantastic? Or I could tell you how important the suffragettes were for putting issues of not just women, but equal rights in general on the table, demanding a voice. No, you’re not getting that today. Instead, I’ve been thinking about the colours and how what works in nature, also works well elsewhere too.
(I’ve had these photos stored in a folder for ages and have lost the internet source. Apologies to source for carelessness.)
Hello ‘symptoms of eloquence’ - as we were talking roses, I thought I would try to show you my small, unimpressive specimens. I’m not over keen on roses, well I like them but they don’t move me like little wild flowers that grow in the grass between mowings (a lengthy time in our yard), nor as much as the small purpley blooms a rosemary bush produces but I like them nevertheless. I admire these because they’re stoic and ancient, they’ve been in the garden and withstood at least 6 occupants, have been here for over 40 years, get nothing from me other than the occasional trim and still valiantly bloom each year. They have the most delicate scent and their colour (not quite captured in this photo) is an antique shade of reddy-pink. I like to imagine the first couple in this home, planting these hopefully and nurturing them, sure that they would see them grow. I think they did and have a feeling they left in their older years when the house and garden became unmanageable. If flowers could talk, what stories would they tell? Prince Charles might be able to tell me something about that.