In a roundabout way I speak of hemp; not the type you smoke and get high on, but another variety, a useful one.
When BH died I planted a rose in his memory. I chose one named Thomas à Becket because BH died on the Archbishop’s Feast Day.
Handsome is as handsome does, and magpies do not.
It’s very comforting to have a friend, specially a feathered one, awake at the same time as oneself when stumbling about slopping tea and trying not to sneeze and wake BH.
Seriously now, have you ever met anyone who said: “I hate daffodils”?
Once upon a time Eden was organic; then Lucifer barged in and ruined everything. But we gardeners try again and again to replicate paradise in our individual way; much as the exile tries again and again to recreate “The old ways just as they used to be.”
As one who hales from the North where nature roars loose and random, and where the wind scoffs at efforts to tie-back, tie-up, or restrain by any means (think “Wuthering”), the ways of Southern England are lip-curlingly scorned by us Borderers.
Is someone, somewhere, failing to educate the young? Are parents blind to the need to teach at least the rudiments of good behaviour, and is society too chicken to get involved? Today daffodils, tomorrow saplings, next week OAPs?
It was ill-health that propelled Brother Adam into the world of bees – more outdoor exercise was prescribed – and he never looked back.
Heaven forbid one should actually have to get up at 4:30 am to do the milking, or brave the elements of a winter night to bring the sheep to safety, but thank God there are people who do these things so that we may have milk on our doorstep, roast lamb for Sunday lunch and honey still for tea!