This has to be one of the most extraordinarily beautiful times of the turning year in the UK. Here in wet Devon everything is on the cusp of bursting into its fullest lushest becomingness, as green and juicy as it gets.
And the bluebell woods! The bluebell woods! The UK has half of the world's population of bluebells. Round here we still have the traditional deep ultraviolet single-stemmed native British one (as opposed to the showier stiffer paler Spanish interloper – the native one dates back at least to the Bronze Age and possibly the last Ice Age) with its delicate perfumed bellheads, and in the wet woods the scent and colour takes me to the edge of tripping-out.
Why is it, then, that I so anticipate this time of year – admittedly like every other time, but this quality of deep purple blueness against the acid green of the new beech leaves and the tawny-gold oak leaflets is unique; and yet it speeds past while I lose myself and the gift of this precious moment in the belief that there are other things more important to do than standing and gazing, than immersion in the deep heart of this one-and-only time of Right Now, Right Here? With what else do we offset our broken hearts at the troubles of the world?
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