A few notes on the hatching of a new season:
Spring was kind to its little charges this year. It bathed them in soft, gentle rain and the flora responded by growing tall, lush, or fragrant according to their natures and fancies. I've become especially fond of a small Philadelphus that lurks furtively on the side of the garden path, in the midst of a swell of winter rhododendrons. It enjoys ambushing me with its lovely scent just as I'm running off to a meeting I've nearly forgotten, and since the bush is fairly small, I initially had to sniff around for a few seconds until I managed to find it. Now that I've plotted it, however, I can just give it a parting smell or two and be on my way, which saves a lot of time.
Our rhododendrons and azaleas have all but gone, and aside from a few light purple outliers, all that's left on the plants are their heavy green leaves and an assortment of brown mummified remains. I brought in a few flowers several weeks ago figuring I'd press them and make a birthday card for my aunt, but I never got around to the pressing and ended up with a drawer full of brittle, tissue-thin, and decidedly dead flowers. It was a morbid sight, but one easily remedied by a quick tip into the rubbish bin. My aunt's birthday isn't until November, so there's still time for crafts.
The roses have come in nicely following their annual growth spurt, and from my desk I now look out on a spread of white, red, pink, and mottled flowers. The petals either cling together in a tight bunch or recline lazily in a decadent swoon. Either way, they're perched atop be-thorned stems that are around three to six feet tall and though they sway placidly in the gentlest breeze they somehow manage to stay fast in a hail storm. These flowers are a fine sight, particularly in light of the constant threat of honey fungus, which looms over our roses like the sword of Damocles and has little compunction in destroying a raft of innocents.
Our small plum tree has been hard at work this year, diligently setting scores of fruit out to hang. the plums are green and tear-shaped and hard as rocks, but soon enough they'll darken and soften, at which point the yearly contest between man and rodent will begin anew. The bookmakers have given the edge to the squirrels this year, thanks to the death of Casper the cat and the foxes' preference for the neighborhood garbage over the neighborhood vermin. Still, one can't hang up the gloves before the bell has rung. Vicious countenances will be sported until the contents of at least a basket or to have been wrenched from the clutches of those little grey plagues.
I took a short walk to day from the Royal Festival Hall to St. Thomas' Hospital with the thought of enjoying an hour or two of relative tranquility in a small garden overlooking the Houses of Parliament. It's a nice spot, and a surprisingly quiet one given its location. I suppose people are disinclined to walk the half block necessary to gain entry, or maybe its the thought of sitting outside a hospital that puts people off. Whatever the case may be, it suits me fine, particularly on a sunny day like today, when the Thames path is lousy with tourists snapping pictures, smoking cigarettes, and meandering along slowly as if on a conveyor belt.
The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day.
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sun lit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.
Robert Frost wrote this stanza as part of his poem Two Tramps in Mud Time back in 1936, probably in Vermont, but anyone who's ever lived in London is well acquainted with the phenomenon described. Even now, astride the summer solstice, we're subjected to London's seasonal capriciousness. One minute small children are playing shirtless in Jeppe Hein's Appearing Rooms fountain at the Southbank Centre, drenched to the bone but enjoying the slight sizzle on their skin from the sun overhead, the next they're wrapped like mummies in thick towels brought from home, teeth a-chatter, skin a-goosebumped, and lips a-blue.
From where I'm sitting I can hear a piper busking on the Silver Jubilee Bridge. I passed him earlier and noticed that he was offering the full Scottish experience, right down to the Sgian Dubh and black jacket. He'd just finished up a martial number and was mopping his brow with a handkerchief as he stood broiling in the brilliant haze of light that reflected off the bridge's polished metal. The clouds have since swarmed in and he's adapted his programme to suit the mood. The sounds of Amazing Grace are currently floating over the Thames, spurring the the populace on to reflection as they endeavour to enjoy the lazy freedom of a Sunday in June.
If there's a more charming way of experiencing the Cotswalds than drifting along the Cam in a punt with two bottles of Champagne trailing on strings and a pretty little friend trying to find the notes to some old song on her guitar, I don't want to know what it is.
The summer is a time when the long journey to Hammersmith seems entirely worthwhile. Perched on the surge wall outside the Blue Anchor, a person can stare for hours at the Thames, watching its traffic drift slowly towards Richmond and Hampton Court, or observing as it moves in the opposite direction, under the Hammersmith Bridge, through Central London, past Dartford and Tilsbury and the estuary at Southend then out to sea at last.
