This bluebell wood is a short distance away from where we live. At this time of year, it is spectacular, both in sight and perfume, when the bluest of blue carpet of flowers covers the woodland floor. I step apologetically as I walk, for it is impossible not to crush some of the flowers under foot.
Sunbeams filter through the trees whilst the sound of blackbirds and rooks are heard from above. These are memorable moments to embrace.
At times like this, I reflect on fond memories from my childhood, of being taken to ‘our bluebell wood’ by my parents, there we would pick armfuls of these sweet flowers, so symbolic of spring. Although they have now become a protected flower, I dare to pick a few each year, in memory of those happy days and it is my practice to place them in a pretty vase between two photographs of Mum & Dad. I know they’d like it.
Green thumb . . . . . . . . . . - Somehow I missed celebrating Earth Day yesterday, so today I'm sharing the view from the front porch this morning looking out across our little quarter acr...
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