This morning I stepped out in the very warm sunshine with my camera. In the front garden the crab apple blossoms and the first of the libertia are blooming; the Amanogawa cherry reaches above the eaves; and some of our cyclamen still flower.
The yellow and red tulips in the patio bed which have taken some time to open fully have stretched for the kiss of the sun; Erigeron clambers beside the kitchen door. The red Japanese maple shows its colour; all our camellias remain laden with blooms. Shadows fall across the paths; a glass robin’s breast glints in the light; the chair in the Weeping Birch bed awaits a visitor; all but the broken stem of the last year’s New Zealand flax stand proud against the blue sky; Florence sculpture looks back towards the house; aubretia spills over the rocks bordering the Gazebo Path.
Tulipa Lilac Wonder has yet to welcome the sun’s rays. Bumble bees lumber among the yellow lamium. The Waterboy offers liquid refreshment.
This afternoon could even be described as hot. The Lilac Wonders now opened wide, as did more varieties; bluebells proliferate; Autumn sculpture enjoys a little shade. The carved owl we bought on our recent visit to Hockey’s now stands at the feet of Florence sculpture.
We were treated to swarms of hummingbird moths, hardly bigger than the forget-me-not blooms that they favoured.
This evening we dined on Mr Pink’s fish and chips, mushy peas, and pickled onions, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Shiraz.