Roses After Rain

Lately, it’s been raining a lotta lot. It’s been cold and grey and cloudy a lotta lot.

On the one hand: it’s great weather for cosy, snug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug reading. It’s great weather for big, baggy, woolly jumpers – my favourite things to wear. It’s great weather for cuddles with cats. It’s great for cheeky hot chocolates and holier than thou herbal teas. It’s great for baths so hot they turn my ghost-white skin a radioactive-pink. It’s great for morning runs that leave my lungs fresh and clean, but my legs unable to cope with stairs. It’s great for irridescent road rainbows shining, bleeding, and swirling across tarmac. It’s great for lazy lie ins spent listening to the drum of raindrops against lush leaves and blooming petals.

On the other hand: it’s Juuuuune.

*folds away summer dresses and cries tears that turn to ice in the air*

Oh well.

*wipes away icicle tears*

At least roses still look beautiful after rain.

Mayor of Casterbridge rose
Mayor of Casterbridge roses after a June rainstorm…

Walking Off Winter

It’s only a few more days until winter is officially over here, and I am so, so ready to say goodbye to it. Readier than I have ever been. I’ve tried to embrace the last few months, tried to get on board with the constant tingle of cold gnawing at my bones. I’ve tried to appreciate sludgy snow, biting winds, silver grey skies, short sharp days, and spattering rain; tried to embrace my inner ice queen. I have so, so tried. Really and truly.

But my heart wants spring now, right this very minute, more than it has ever wanted spring before.

I want blooming flowers and zesty bright greens. I want long, long days and I want evenings spent laughing in slowly, gently, softly dying light. I want to lounge in warm, golden sunshine with a book, blossom tumbling from the trees, bees humming through the air. I want strawberries that are fresh and juicy and sweet. I want floaty dresses and flip flops. I even want SPF 50 sunscreen.

*sighs forlornly*

There’s just the matter of those tricksy few more days to get through.

I’ll be spending them how I’ve tried to spend the rest of winter: walking off the cold, walking off the grey, walking off the cabin fever.

And, of course, there’ll be the odd bit of reading thrown in too.

โค

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Green

If you look too long into the green the green will eat you up. It will wind its way around your heart and its splintered roots will lodge inside your bones. Underneath your skull, a whole forest will unfurl and make your thoughts a muddle. You’ll try to leave it, try to live beyond it, but you’ll find your soul ensnared, find it calling you back, pulling you back, painting your blood and staining you through.

Smoky light beams in a woodland, Dorset.

Camellia Stars

The day was silver; cloud flooded and icy cold.

The ground was speckled white with snowdrops, sometimes pink with cyclamen, sometimes even yellow with daffodils. A great big shiny promise of spring.

Soon. One last winter-soaked breath.

We escaped away from the crowds, away from the drops of snow, away from accidentally photobombing people’s flowery snaps, and wandered into the woods.

Wandering into the woods is always a good idea, despite what the fairytales tell you.

We found no wolves or witches.

Only petals fallen to the path and camellia stars stuck to the sky.

Pink camellias and tree silhouettes in winter.
Camellia stars + naked trees + silver skies

Reads – Holloway

At 36 pages, Holloway by Robert Macfarlane isn’t the longest read on the planet, but it was one of the nicest reading experiences I’ve had in a long time.

It’s teeny-tiny and delicate and cherishable, something to be picked up and reread every now and then. Something to get lost in for ten minutes. Something ‘within which ghosts softly flock’. It’s kind of like a prayer book – one where God is south Dorset (biased? me? *waves hand dismissively but guiltily*), gnarly knotted trees, sunken many-lives-haunted pathways, friendship, and quiet adventure.

It made me want to escape to the real world.

Just maybe when it stops raining.

Holloway - by Robert Macfarlane, Stanley Donwood, and Dan Richards - book review.

 

The Light Circus

Roll up, roll up!

Come and walk where the trees burn with rainbows! Join us in a land of magic and wonder, where colours bleed into the sky and claw their way towards the stars, where darkness is made bright! Ladies and gentlemen, follow us to a place where the air is so cold your lungs will turn it white, a place so cold your skin will bump with gooses!

Roll up, roll up, and keep your eyes wide open!

And please, ladies and gentlemen, remember to stay with us on the paths!

For we cannot help you beyond the lights. We cannot help you in the dark.

And who knows what’s waiting for you there?

Christmas lights in Dorset. Colourful illuminated trees in December. Rainbow colours. Christmas illumination in a country garden, England.

Cobwebs

You know the saying “blow the cobwebs away”? After walking at Durdle Door today, I’m pretty sure I’m sorted on the cobwebs front for life.

It was so – so, so, so – windy. My face hurt. My ears hurt. My eyes hurt. My eyelashes even hurt, as the air tried its best to burrow into my eye sockets and brain.

Between the steps down to Man O’ War beach and the steps to Durdle Door, the air funnelled through so hard it was like being battered in the face and chest. I thought, at one point, my shirt and jacket might sink through my skin, tear through my ribs, and rip out through my spine, leaving a tangly mess of me and my clothes in the churning sea below.

Luckily, that didn’t happen. Which is good, because it means I can go again sometime.

Maybe when it’s a little less windy, though.

Man of War Bay, Durdle Door, Dorset, November 2017.

Sky Painter

Some nights she found it hard to paint the sky – matching it just so to how everyone had come to think it should look. Some nights she didnโ€™t have to paint it at all – those nights were hard too, hard on her itching painterโ€™s hands. She would stare at the top of the clouds and wonder what to do. Sometimes she would doodle across them, patterns of all different colours and shapes, patterns only she could see. Sometimes she would burst with anger and boredom and tear great, bright gashes through the air. She always regretted those and erased them as fast as she had made them, roaring with all the air in her lungs. And sometimes she would paint it just the same as on a clear and crystal night, because practise makes perfect and perfect was how people thought it should be.

There were nights, however, that she could paint the sky just how she wanted to, nights when no-one would notice the stars were missing.

Those nights, she would pour her whole soul into the moon, big and bright and shining. She would swirl the glowing, glossy emulsion round and round until she was dizzy and heartless and soulless, and when there was nothing left to paint with she would fall, swoop, glide to the ground and walk until her feet were sore – which happens quickly when you hardly use them – glancing up at her whole life, hoping, when the time came, it would fit back in under her ribs and skull.

Mostly, it did fit.

Some nights, there were pieces of it that didn’t.

And on those nights, she would scoop up the pieces of her life and soul and heart she had no room for any more and scatter them across the ground, hoping, when the time came, they would brighten someone’s dark.

Always, they did.

Full moon on a misty, foggy night in Dorset, England.

Autumn

Autumn is both a relief and a kind of heartbreak.

It’s fresh and crisp and full of cosy comforts. I love the smell of apples, berries, spices and sugar that wraps itself sweetly round every room in the house, promising deliciousness. I love the glossy, metallic sunlight that shimmers through dying leaves. I love the bloom of condensation on windows in the morning. I love wrapping up warm, snug as a bug in a rug.

But it’s painful to say goodbye to summer and long, lazy days. It’s disconcerting that night starts earlier and earlier, then leaves later. It’s a shock to the system and a wake up call.

Heart made with shadows on an evening walk in the sunshine. Autumn walk in the sunshine, Badbury Rings, Dorset.

Autumn is the perfect time to reflect, take stock, make plans and – crucially, but too often the part I skip – set those plans in motion. That’s my goal for the coming days and weeks.

It’s also the perfect time to curl up with a good book.

And I’ll certainly be doing that too.

โค

Bluebell Time of Year

Spring is bluebell time of year in England.

Woods and gardens bubble over with purple-blue droplets, speckled against a background of the brightest green.

English bluebells in a bluebell wood on the Kingston Lacy estate, Dorset, England.
Bluebells on the Kingston Lacy estate, Dorset.

There are those who say it is dangerous to walk amongst the bluebells. They say some never return from their wanderings, snatched away by fairies.

And if you hear the bluebells ring, it is said, you’ll die before the next morning.

I say, I’m willing to take my chances…