Summer Flowers – Monday

I really have no idea how people who post daily manage it.  Three days and I’m close to quitting.  I had a day at home today (public holiday) and it got to 1740 hours and I had not turned on the computer.  This is a wonderful thing in our household, when usually, (if we are at home) my, his and our computers all get turned on close to first thing in the morning (yes, all three; we have a fourth, too, but that’s upstairs and for I don’t know what kind of special things because only my partner uses that one).

No, we’re not geeks.

Oh, wait. Yes we are.

But I digress.  Back to flowers.

Heather is one of the flowers I associate with English summer.  It covers entire hillsides near where I live, such that all one sees is acres of pink.  Up close, the individual flowers are cute little bells in neat rows along each stem, and awfully difficult to photograph especially if there is a breeze, which, being England, there almost always is.

Heather, Brecon Beacons, July 2009.

I took the below photo because the rock resembled a happy guinea pig, sniffing away at the glorious scent of heather.

Heather, Peak District, August 2008.

Field of Poppies

It is really summer when you see this:

Field of Poppies, North Hampshire, August 2009.

This is actually the first year that I have seen a field of poppies in England.  Usually, I come upon the fields after the poppies have bloomed – I know by the seed heads that they were here but I have missed them in their red dominance of fields as I see only the later blooming ones scattered along the disturbed earth of footpaths.

Summer Flowers – Saturday

The hydrangea is a flower that perplexes me.  I am aware it blooms in different colours due to the level of PH in the soil (more alkaline, towards the blue end of the spectrum; more acid, the pink end – or is it the other way around?) but I am surprised by the number of hydrangea bushes that I see that have a full range of colours.  I just don’t understand how that can happen?

Oh, I am aware it is not a wild flower.  Work with me as I evade categories here.

Hydrangea at Work, July 2009.

And I never knew there were different types of hydrangea; although, I guess, I can extrapolate because there are different types of almost everything, so why not hydrangea?

Lace Hydrangea, London. August 2009.

Something New (for me)

I’m going to try to do a week load of photo posts.  Yes, post with photos every day for a week.  Laugh WITH me, friends, not AT me for my hubris.

It is definitely almost autumn already.  For once, I am reluctant to let summer go.  I am very much a cold weather person and I do so adore autumn in England.  Perhaps I would adore autumn anywhere but I have only experienced autumn in England.

This morning I sat at the library gazing out the window at the large park opposite.  The wind blew mightily; trees shook while their leaves fought to hold on.  A few did not have strong enough stems and let go, fluttering slowly down to the ground.  The air has a distinct bitter edge to it and I am cycling wearing a vest (gilet/waistcoat) and long trousers again, rather than my 3/4 length shorts.

The whole of this past week has been windy – it is as if the weather wishes to blow away the last vestiges of summer entirely: sweep out the green and bring in the red and yellow.

I’m going to have a week of nostalgia – of the lovely summer wildflowers of England & Wales I encountered during my walks and cycles.

First up: the first flowers that usher in summer.  Can you guess?

Daisy from Old Wardour Castle, near Salisbury. April 2009.

I am aware April is not yet summer but daisies are definitely summer flowers, not spring.  No, la la la, not listening.

Did you grow up making daisy chains?  I did not.  I grew up making clover flower chains because  daisies do not grow in Brisbane.  One of my workmates was astounded that I had never made daisy chains.  We were walking together through the park near my workplace, and I was picking my way carefully among the daisies, unable to decide on a place to sit to eat our lunch because I would squash a daisy if I sat anywhere.  She found amusing my amazement at seeing a lawn carpetted with the bright, fried-egg flowers.  Together, we grown girls made a daisy chain one lunch time, staining our fingers green.

They’re ubiquitous.  Nothing special.  Exceptionally common.  And I adore them for it.

(I will be very embarassed if I’ve shown you this picture before).

A wild daffodil, I think. Near Windermere, Lake District. April 2009.

This is the one and only time I have seen this flower – what I think is a wild daffodil but am prepared to be corrected by anyone who sounds more authoritative.

And, lastly for this post, May in England is glorious.

(Yes, yes, I know May is not summer either.  la la la not listening remember?)

Bluebell Wood, near Moreton-in-Marsh. May 2009.

I was ever so excited to see this bluebell wood, in the Cotswolds.  The English bluebell is rare in Southern England, where it has been outcompeted by the Spanish / hybrid bluebell (equally pretty, just not native).  The following night, we camped beside a bluebell wood – less picturesque then this one but there is something about that expanse of blue that expresses magic.

Oh, and I lied about last.  You just have to see this to understand.

Bluebell close-up, Lydford Gorge, April 2007.

Florence & The Cinque Terre

Two months ago my partner and I went to Florence and the Cinque Terre.  It feels like a lifetime away.

I still have some chores to do in relation to the trip:-

1. Send thank you card and email to the lovely, lovely people we stayed with in Florence;

Well, I took a break from writing this post to send off the email.  And now, it is done.

2. Show you pictures from the trip;

That’s the whole point of this post, right? I’ve been a bit conflicted, however, because many of the better photos were taken by my partner.  I feel like a fraud showing you HIS photos.

The Tuscan Countryside and the house we stayed in. <photo taken by my partner>

3. Send off the postcards that I bought for specific individuals because the cards were just so ‘them’.

My partner and I are notoriously bad at sending postcards from our holiday destinations to our family and friends.  Often, I write on them while we’re away.  Then, the postcards come home with us and I look at them and think, “Argh! I can’t send that now, with a UK stamp.”  Sometimes, I defiantly send them anyway.  Sometimes, they languish with all my other travel paraphernalia (I am an incorrigible collector of receipts, tickets, pamphlets and business cards because I am thoroughly rubbish at buying souvenirs) and years later I am startled by them when I procrastinate from other tasks by tidying my travel miscellany.

Mostly, I find writing postcards thoroughly unsatisfying. I can never think of anything interesting or witty until right near the very end by which time I am out of room and have to sign off.  Postcards, unlike letters, seem completely divorced from their audience.

I must remember though that I love receiving postcards.  Therefore, I should send them because I am sure the recipients, too, love receiving them, irrespective of the pap I write on the obverse.

A postcard-esque picture <if I say so myself>: view of the River Arno from the Ponte Vecchio.

Our visit to the Cinque Terre was an exercise in serendipity.  We had planned to hike in the Apennines for half of the trip.  I thwarted this plan by twisting my ankle on our first day in Florence.  The ankle twist was worsened by the fact that I was carrying a backpack weighing approximately 15kgs and, for comedic effect, had just declined an offer for someone else to take the pack off me.  Stupid pride (comes before an ankle sprain I hear).

My partner, because he is cruel and horrible, finds this picture hilarious. Me, exiting the duomo, with walking stick. <photo not taken by me>

After tossing ideas back and forth about what we could do with the last half of our trip, we suppressed our fear that the Cinque Terre would be overflowing with tourists and decided to go there as it was (1) easy to get to, (2) easy to get around  and (2) not a city.  I craved countryside, a dash of wilderness, open spaces.  Florence was claustrophia-inducing and overrun with tourists like ourselves.

Does dinner get more idyllic than this?

On our first night, we bought a picnic dinner of antipasti (salami piccante, prosciutto al crudo, pecorino cheese, olives and the most deliciously sweet tomatoes ever), which we ate at a deserted cafe and lookout point in the Torre Guardiola.

Our idea of a ‘relaxing’ holiday is not like most people’s.  But my ankle and the need to change accommodation halfway through our holiday enforced a more relaxed holiday upon us than we would otherwise have had, had we been left to our own devices.  Though we walked the entire coastal path linking the five villages (hence the name Cinque Terre), we did so over two days, with rest days between each, during which my partner drew, I read, and we meandered down to the sea and I was too afraid to swim in it.

We sat upon the white rocks for a solid two hours, idling. Riomaggiore Harbour by me.

The very picture of peace. Riomaggiore Harbour.

To take the above photo, I lay sprawled on the rocks trying to get as low down as possible, without falling into the water.   I wanted the blue boat on its own, but no contortions (and I tried a few) enabled me to frame the picture without other boats.

And, lastly, there were many, many window boxes filled with flowers and I thought of you, Wandering Chopsticks, and your love of them.  So here’s a photo that I asked my partner to take for you:-

It was midday. The light was not great but the flowers are.