Resurrection

It is very strange, and I feel awkward admitting it, but yesterday, when the Middle East was on fire, and my despair at certain men’s viciousness deepened, the spring seemed to arrive at Hepworth Towers, both physically and metaphorically.

When I went out to the shed in my pyjamas to bring in more apples I wasn’t cold. (It was 10 degreesC.) When I went out on my bike for just the second ride of the year, I didn’t shiver. And I came back amazed at my realisation of how much I have missed cycling because of the two months of rain. No wonder I’ve been depressed. No wonder I haven’t been able to paint.

There was something about the air that was springlike. All but two of our daffodils are still in bud but the soil was dry enough to work with, and I did my first spell of gardening this year. My sweet pea seeds should arrive in the post this week, so out will come the yoghurt cartons.  

I felt better yesterday than I have in months, simply because it was such a pleasure to be outside. I haven’t heard the blackbird yet, but I’m listening.

What do you know?

Liz has just this minute (6.35 am) texted me a recording of her blackbird singing this morning. 

Here it is.

Finally, in fairness to Starmer…I welcome his refusal to aid the Americans in bombing the Middle East.