Bluebells and Nazis

Spent the morning writing my Skeleton story. Heard a yob like chanting of England! England! through my open window from a crowd marching from the station. It was a far right organisation who I believe were protesting in Brighton.

Lorraine snoozing between reading the print off the paper. Then in the afternoon she grew insistent to see bluebells and hug trees. So she drove us to a beautiful wood near Burgess Hill on the other side of the downs. I have never seen so many bluebells in my life. It was like stepping into a kind of heaven where the woods were carpeted with a snow of the dusty violet blue flowers as far as the wood would let you see into it. And the air beneath the canopy was peppery with their faint hyacinth-like smell. Also we saw what my book of wildflowers calls early purple orchids as well as primroses and violets. And everywhere the trees in first leaf like, as Larkin said, something almost being said. Spent at least an hour and a half wandering about in the woods, with Lorraine looking blissfully happy.

Then we drove us down to the sea and we walked to The Meeting Place for a cup of tea. Very clear, blue day, which was full of the smell of barbecuing sausages. A handful of brave souls in the freezing sea.

Then to The Sussex Yeoman for an excellent Sunday roast at about six thirty. As we walked down the hill from the parked car more fascist chanting from near the station. Funny old world, which accommodates both bluebell viewing, and the preaching of racial and sexual intolerance of a Sunday afternoon.

Home and Toby called, describing the virtues of his excise regime and saying that he had legs like the Hulk, which must be nice.

Below one of the nine million bluebell shots I took. Click it for a better view of English woodland.