The bluebell ....

...  is the sweetest flower
That waves in summer air:
Its blossoms have the mightiest power
To soothe my spirit’s care.
Emily Bronte

My bluebells are good this year, finally thickening out under the trees in near the fairy path. A liminal space possibly? I have a thing about bluebells. In my youth I was lucky enough to have friends who had a small woodland and in the spring it would be literally blue with them. We children were allowed to roam unattended and would amuse ourselves by picking huge armfuls and carrying them home, stuffing them into jugs where they would smell heavenly. I was also allowed to ride an old  horse around this little wood - Janey. She was big and docile and only did one route, which suited me - small and lively. I can remember plodding through the wood, sunbeams falling through the trees and everywhere this astonishing blue.
Five years ago I had a road trip back to England and visited many old haunts including the Essex village I was brought up in. It's now on the commuter belt for London and I was nervous. The village had been tiny in my day, 300 souls, and now it was highly desirable, an expensive place to live. I was amazed to find though the roads remained teeny and full of flowers, and woodands and green spaces still existed. I wondered whether to risk going down to Sparkey Wood, I feared it might have been flattened or developed. I risked it. My friend's family's old bungalow had been pulled down and replaced by  a modern box but the wood: intact, zinging with colour, heady with perfume, a feast of blue.
Proof here
And  my friend was now living in his granny's house 'up top'. He was rather surprised to see me!