Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made

By singing: – “Oh, how beautiful!” and sitting in the shade…

~ Rudyard Kipling “The Glory of the Garden”

Spring has arrived in our corner of Wiltshire. Days of warmth and sunshine alternating with mild mist and occasional thunder storms have come together to create perfect growing conditions. The fields where just a few weeks ago we walked across grass stubble are now a waist-high sea of lacy white cow parsley blossoms.  Stinging nettles have grown thick and lush, and already I’ve had to carefully thread my hand through a giant patch of them to retrieve the dog’s stick when I carelessly tossed it there. Bluebells are beginning to open and carpet patches of woodland with a delicate, soft blue haze.  The fields of yellow rapeseed glow like reflected sunlight, contrasting starkly to the dark brown of the freshly ploughed fields and the lush, green grass. Continue reading →