Sweet is the sound…

Oh, the relief. We have made it through. It is, without even a shadow of a doubt, Spring.

We even ate our lunch outside, al fresco. It is still a wee bit fresco but still glorious. We sat, wearing fleeces and mucky wellies, with the sun on our faces, munching fatyer cheese bread from Lynn’s fantastic recipe. Life gets no better.

Look at this little over-enthusiastic sweet pea! He bolted off the blocks and left his buddies for dust but then got top-heavy and keeled over. I’ve nipped him off and I am rooting for him to make a comeback.

Strawflowers, turnips, fennel, giant poppies, sweetpeas, peas, broad beans, fairies…

Yes, I did say fairies. (away with the fairies have a website here)

Can anyone tell me about this magnificent creature? He’s about as big as Bernard the giant, woolly bee, here. He paused just long enough to pose for a picture before rising elegantly skyward. Edit: Thanks, Sam at A Coastal Plot, for letting me know that this is a red-tailed bumble bee.

There is a marked Aer Lingus hue to this post. Anyone else hearing strains of Gabriel’s Oboe? (that ad, here)

‘Son’, I said to the teenage boy on Sunday afternoon,’would you cut the grass, please’

‘Mum’, said he in reply, ‘there is no grass in the grass’.

He has a point.

I have heard neighbours tut-tutting at the state of our, ahem, lawn.  Look, I’m certain it’s more environmentally friendly this way.

Pulmonaria, lungwort,  or ‘soldiers and sailors’…the camouflage leaves and blue flowers; is there a more imaginatively named flower?

Pent-up, latent energy exploding.

My Spring project using the yarn so fine it could have been spun by real fairies. (Irish Fairytale Yarns, here.) The plan is that this will become a lacy shrug which I will wear casually over floaty summer dresses. A girl can dream.

An tEarrach Thiar.

Fear ag glanadh cré
De ghimseán spáide
Sa gciúnas shéimh
I mbrothall lae:
Binn an fhuaim
San Earrach thiar.

A man cleaning clay
From the back of a spade
In the gentle quiet
Of a sultry day:
Sweet is the sound
In the Western spring.                          Máirtín Ó’Direáin.

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