Possibly for the first time in my life I understand why Browning wrote that.
I am definitely an Autumn person. I’ve always thought Spring a bit over-rated, even when I lived in England. It seemed so drawn out, and usually very wet. I suppose that I expected everything to bloom at once, rather than over the three months of the Season. Going in April two years ago I found the best of the blossom over, though there were some stunning scenes in London’s parks. To be honest I was there this year at the end of March, rather than the beginning of April. I got home early this morning, hence the dearth of posts of late. My internet access was woeful most of the time I was there, but more of that another time.
This Spring, which began the day I arrived, was sunny and balmy. Girls were striding out in summer dresses, daffodils were making the most of their last days and birds of all kinds were rushing around all over the place with twigs, bits of paper and all manner of stuff for their nests. Even in the North the sun-god smiled on me. Often I find that whilst the London area might be mild, further north can still chill the bones this early in the year.
Last Sunday Austin and I hiked from Rydal Water to the head of Grasmere, but then turned back and upwards returning to Ambleside, a beautiful walk, taking in the Lake District’s famous daffodils dotted around the edges of the lakes, and landscapes of morning mists and mirror-like reflections on still waters, all enough to inspire the most jaded of poets.
This evening finds me tired after dozing last night away on a bench in Stansted Airport, but more of that another time, for today, photos of a lovely hike.
And, just to remind you how Browning put it so eloquently:Oh, to be in England Now that April’s there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England – now! And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops – at the bent spray’s edge That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children’s dower, – Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!