In the bluebell wood

It started raining when I was getting ready to walk George but as the rain that had begun when I was hanging out washing lasted barely 5 minutes, I wasn't too concerned. I should have been. It poured down on us. Still as it's the first time in ages and ages that our walk has been rained upon I "mustn't grumble". Indeed I wouldn't be grumbling now - I don't mind walking In the rain if I'm prepared - if the rain hadn't kept plip-plopping down the back of my neck.


In the rain the bluebells took on a darker hue and the scent was more powerful. I always want to lie down in amongst them.


I don't think it's possible to describe the colour of bluebells to someone who hasn't seen them: it is unique. There is almost a luminescence about it. Photos never do the colour justice.


I wonder if it it could be described though to a blind person. It would have to be done using sensations to which the blind person could relate. Let me see. I think the colour of bluebells is like the feeling of early spring sunshine on your skin or the smell of freshness.

Taken in last week's sunshine.

On our way home we encountered a woman who was holding an umbrella down over her face. George normally walks on my left but as she approached, he skedaddled round the back of me so he could be on my right and have me in between him and this strange phenomenon. I don't blame him. I hate umbrellas.