(for about a week).
NRK (Norwegian broadcasting) is televising and live streaming the reindeer migration (reinflytting – excellent word!) in the far north of Norway, all day, every day, until the reindeer arrive wherever it is they are going. Probably take about a week … along the way there are musical interludes, but, though some of the pieces are lovely, the natural sound is even better. When the music is playing I can leave the screen burbling in the corner, but once it goes silent I can’t look away.
At the moment the reindeer group which is being followed is having a little snooze. If you would like to watch them having a little snooze for an hour or so, this is the link:
Oooo – I think a couple of them may have woken up … and yes … noses to the north it is.
Yes, right. The shoures showed no sign of percing the recent droghte as they were vanishingly parsimonious; and as they were composed of a thin vicious sleet on a north wind they had no claim whatever to be soote. As they slanted by we did get a little bit of glamour out of them. This must be the coldest rainbow I’ve ever seen.
The chill got into my bones rather. Last fire of the season? Or are we about to have one of those perishing springs and blighted summers again?
I don’t know why it should be so disconcerting. There you are, vaguely watching a TV programme from 1991, and you suddenly see a prop which is exactly the same pen you bought for yourself nearly 30 years ago. The programme is ancient history. And you are still using the pen.
Demanding day alternately digging in overgrown veg patch and digging in thickets of theology.
(Puts head down on laptop and becomes comatose.)
I’ve just had an ill-omened poem in seventeen lines.
Gifted to me and received with thanks.
The grass has been a spring meadow, studded with primroses, daisies, violets, narcissi, the odd grape hyacinth and bluebell, and even a few naturalising cyclamen. When nearly knee-high, it has to be cut at last – a beastly job, choking the inadequate mower. It also takes an inordinate time to guide the mower in dumpy arabesques around the primmies
circumambulate ungraceful wedges of turf round the spring bulbs
and leave strange linear features which will turn into strange linear colonies of bluebells next year. Because of course I want to preserve and develop this jewelled turf and enjoy it again each spring. Meantime – we do look a bit odd.
Elsewhere, the now-venerable crab apple is about to burst into the full performance. Who knows how many thousands of blossoms? I counted forty on a six-inch twig.
This tree holds its crabs well, and has been feeding the birds all winter; now the last shrivelled fruits are being pushed off by the new leaves and flowers.
A very different creature, the pittosporum is turning its inside-out black flowers …
… strange, very strange … (even stranger if you click for full size image) …
… until, as daylight fades, they set loose their perfume.