Finding fragments of egg shell delicately arranged on the leaves on one of the cowslips which are growing in the shady, grassy area on my route to the washing line was a lovely reminder for me that Spring is well on its way.
In my previous, rushed existence I would never have spotted these first egg shells, even if there were cowslips in my Surrey lawn. For one reason, there were swathes of sunny Spring days when I never went into the garden – my leave-at-seven-a.m. and get-back-after-seven p.m. routine meant I missed much of what went on in the garden. The other reason is that I never put washing out to dry until I came here. OK, I helped my Mum hang things out when I was a child in Norfolk, although I was afraid of the jackdaw who used to run along the line trying to pull out the pegs after her. But in all the years since I left home and had to look after my own domestic jobs, it’s something I’d just never done – either for want of a garden or, more to the point latterly, for want of time.
As I pegged up duvet covers and towels in the sunshine, listening to the faintly jangling bells round the necks of M et Mme Petit’s sheep on the hillside and the happy clucks of our neighbours’ hens just over the fence, interjected with a strident cock-a-doodle every now and then, I reflected on what I’d been missing over the last twenty-plus years.
I’m very lucky that I have had the chance to change the pace of my life and get such delight from simple and apparently insignificant things. And I’ve still got the ironing to look forward to when the rain comes later this week – there’s nothing like steaming out those creases while listening to a good drama on radio 7. Once again, praise be for broadband!
