Grey Matter
Friday, 15 March
We the People do not agree on much these days, but can anyone deny that the weather here in north-western Europe this last stretch of time has been terrible? I use the term stretch of time because it has felt too warm to say winter. Wherever I have been - Paris, London or the Perche - one grey, rainy day follows another with temperatures above the no-longer average and often in the face of a menacing wind. It's felt more like a state of mind than a season.
Even I, a precipitation groupie, a drought hater, have felt the weight of the sky. Getting soaked twice in one day and washing load upon load of dirty dog equipment (not to mention hosing down the dirty dog herself) can subvert the spirit of the rah-rah-rainiest of us.
Especially when it seems all too reflective of the wider mood.
Yet looking through my photos over the last period, I note that the sun has come out from time to time between storms.
And often in rather spectacular, certainly uplifting, fashion.
According to Hamlet: "There is nothing either or good or bad but thinking makes it so." I don't agree, but since there seems to be so little we can do about the great deal of bad that is going on in the world, let's shine some light on the good, nudge the cerebral grey matter as it were in a sunnier direction.
Climate change may be capable of ruining winter, but it cannot alter the passage of time or prevent the days from lengthening. At the beginning of March, the hunting season ended and away went Tasha's gilet jaune (one less thing to wash!). Ditto for my headlamp; the sun was up and the birds chirping merrily by the time we left the house for our morning walk.
Last weekend we went to London to celebrate grand-daughter Mira turning three. Though she's unlikely to remember it, this was her first conscious birthday, and that made it more fun for everyone. Uncle Christo and Tonton Wills came to town and hunkered down...
...and the sun shone one day. But even when it poured, it was a bright moment...
...of family fusion...
Yesterday we drove from Paris to the Perche. The sun was again shining and all along the road were splashes of bright yellow forsythia, gorse and broom in bloom. Once we arrived, the scent of plum blossom floated on the air.
Still, the picture that sticks most forcefully in my mind of the past weeks is the one of this young person, my grand-daughter...
...appearing to reflect on the birthday now past and what's possibly ahead. She is standing on a wobbly cushion and the sky outside is, let's face it, grey.
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