Wednesday, 9 May 2012

On the move again ..

Bluebells on a bank near Malvern (snapped from the motorhome window)
The day so grey, a misty drizzle barely perceptible; hills in the far distance muted - a soft landscape. So on the top road out of the village, I list wild-flowers growing in the unkempt verge: pink campion, bluebells, cowslips, buttercups (the creeping kind, cow parsley sprung but still in bud; dandelions and daisies bedraggled, not bothering to open.

Over the county boundary into Gloucestershire; beyond and over the Fosse Way: Jack-in-the-Hedge (Garlic Mustard), a blush of crab apple, fluffy seed heads of spent coltsfoot. Bud-burst of beech, a delicate silken green. Up onto the high wolds, stony limestone clay; feathered larch as winding down the steep escarpment, the Severn plain is mapped ahead of us, the sky clearing. Across the Avon and Severn, towards the hills - Malvern and the Showground, the Spring Gardening Show, and so much beauty.

Looking towards the Malverns at Castlemoreton (also taken from the m'home)


  1. Love hearing about what is growing in your part of the world... thank you for sharing it with such description that we can close our eyes and almost see it all.

  2. I always enjoy reading your blog but sometimes it is quite a while after it has been posted so i do not always comment,today I have come on and a new one from you so here I am.I was excited when I saw where you were travelling at the moment as that is the area that I stayed in when I last went to the UK so I can in my mind go back there.Your travels are wonderful and as always such a nice blog.Thank you.

  3. So good to hear that you are on your travels again, and I love hearing about your wild flowers. Sheltered (SUNNY!) banks have had Cow Parsley in bloom since late March round here.

  4. I have noticed wild plants ever since I was a small child. I guess because my grandmother took me on long walks when sheared for me during my parents' absence abroad in 1940, and thereafter many times during the war. I still adore the unbent scent of ground ivy trodden underfoot, and grow it in the garden. Much of what I write relates to natural history, and the disappearing past.