adventuresofalgy:

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.