Born to blush unseen ...

No, no - not me: primroses, bluebells, that sort of thing! I found myself this afternoon walking along the road beside Loch Striven with the quotation from Thomas Gray singing itself to a random tune in my head, so that's why today's post is a collage of primroses among the dead grasses of last summer, the first of the bluebells, a blaze of golden gorse and some random Field Horsetail, all scattered along the side of the road. Along with the vivid blue of the sky - which I may feel drawn to put in as an extra - reflected in the loch, and the pale, diverse greens of new growth, it was a walk of intoxicating beauty in a place very familiar, very hard to leave. 

It's been a magical sort of day, despite the presence of a very definitely north-west wind, with bright sun from the moment it rose. (I'm going to have to be more ruthless about shutting the bedroom curtains a bit further along; I'm being wakened insanely early.) I managed, despite the sun, to have a longer than usual lie, resolutely doing my Italian exercises before I got up. I washed my long, furry fleece dressing gown and my padded trousers (am I rash?), dried them on the line and put them away until next winter. I fretted about my granddaughter sitting her first Higher exam - had she made it in? Did she manage to play her trombone? (Yes to both, although she was still feeling rough; her sister is now stricken with the lurgie.) I swore, briefly but viciously, when I discover that a neighbour's cat had crapped on my newly-planted container and dug up the compost to bury it - I've now laid jaggy bits of rosa rugosa stems on all the pots just in case. Should have done it right away ...

And Himself cut the grass. 

Despite our walk and a quick visit to go over a solo of one of our sopranos, we managed to fit in dinner before online Compline and my subsequent collapse on the sofa, where I've been ever since. I think I slept through some of the news, but woke up to see the horses rampaging through central London. 

And I don't care one little bit for this talk about putting Britain "on a war footing." These clowns will talk us into a war with their macho posturing. What happened to "Jaw, jaw"?