When I told a certain Devonian gentleman which road our new house was on he said “gawd, its rough up there!”. Or I think that was what he said. We had some initial communication problems. He refused to talk to me for the first 6 months of our acquaintance, examining the floor and muttering when I attempted dialogue, trying his hardest not to acknowledge my existence. My heinous crimes were being a blow-in, a female and having the cheek to be a head gardener. After this silent initiation, in which I refused to participate “Beautiful morning!” “How are you today?” “Nice to see you again”, and he realised I was not a monster/idiot/wimp, he rarely stopped talking. Very fast and very broad. I used to watch his lips move in the vain hope I would get more clues as it what he was talking about. As the weeks went on it began to make some sense, either he stopped laying it on thick or my translate-ometer kicked in. Generally his diatribes were concerning the private lives of local folk and their septic tanks. My lips are sealed. When pressed as to exactly what he meant by “rough”, he explained (again this is an estimate of meaning) that when the wind blew we would know it. How right he was. At this very moment the wind is howling outside like a low budget horror film; whistling, rattling, moaning. This morning as I forced my way out of the front door, shoulder to the fore, and spilled out into the fray like a champagne cork, I noticed one of my crocuses had a well developed flower bud. Needless to say I was very excited and, as is my habit, needed to share. Trying to take a photo in this weather is like trying to drink a dry martini whilst on a bouncy castle with the Samoan rugby team, very messy. This is my best attempt. I am tempted to call it art.
Off The Edge Gardening 
That is early; no sign of any of mine.
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I thought so too! Maybe it is a rogue and the rest will wait a while.
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It’s a bit blowy on this side too. Indeed a delivery chap warned me that it was blowing a “hoolie” down the road. In the absence of flying tents, I resorted to an online dictionary which gives me the indirect knowledge that your very artistic crocus stem’s a lot stronger than a fence post here. The latter is now held up with guy ropes until the hoolie blows over enough to dismantle the fence without taking off.
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I very bravely/foolishly put the washing on the line (lots of pegs), dried in about half an hour but the risk factor that it would all end up in Combe Martin was high. My life is all about high drama. Stay inside until its safe!
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Art it is indeed.Just the fact you took the photo under such difficult circumstances turns a lovely early crocus into something special.And then the extra talent for translation adds some intellectual weight……I could go on but I won’t
It’s a lovely post…..thanks
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And thank you!
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As lovely as your photo is…….. I think on this occasion I would have preferred to see you with dry martini (dry martini? I thought you were more of a gin person) in hand, accompanied by the Samoan rugby team on a bouncy castle:)
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A spectacular sight!
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Oh I am so glad he is talking to you. What fun. Come on do share the gossip about the private lives of your neighbours and their septic tanks. There is an old lady in my village who tells me the most scandalous tales about people living here, which I enjoy enormously.
What a treat to see your brave little crocus.
And of course the image of you drinking martini on the bouncy castle with your Samoan rugby team is one I treasure.
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The thing is, I usually didn’t have a clue who he was talking about. “You know, the one with the limb, Trevor’s cousin” No idea.
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Well my lovely it be rough up there it must be 😀. Would love to see your Devon wind ha ha ha ha
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