Algy could feel that the weather was changing. It really was spring at last, and to prove it, bluebells were suddenly popping up everywhere. Algy adores bluebells, so he spent a happy hour among them in the dappled shade, listening to the first two swallows chattering to each other as they swooped around overhead.
A fine and subtle spirit dwells
In every little flower,
Each one its own sweet feeling breathes
With more or less of power.
There is a silent eloquence
In every wild bluebell
That fills my softened heart with bliss
That words could never tell.
[Algy is quoting from the poem The Bluebell by Anne Brontë.]
…and ever a mystery to me why they are called ‘bluebells,’ when in fact they are a shade of purple.
Once upon a time I lived in a fabby old house, an old post office to be exact. In the garden were some dilapidated sheds, one for coal, one for garden implements and one, I can’t remember what and well, it doesn’t matter. At the back of the sheds there was a small flower bed and then a phone box (red of course) and a post box, also red. What I loved though, was the colour of the old stained wood, darkish brown, very dark brown once but now faded like a lovely watercolour (which is what it was as Scotland is wet). In that bed grew these stalwart soldiers, tall upright stems of vibrant purple foxgloves. Normally I can take or leave the foxglove but up against this dark faded wood of the shed - it was so exquisite, the contrast of colour, the verticals of the wood and flowers. I tried numerous times to capture what I was seeing, with the camera. I never managed to. I stopped people, neighbours and the like and asked them, “don’t you think it’s gorgeous,” and of course they humoured their crazy neighbour but really, it was lovely . This is lovely too.