The news has gone, it seems, from pretty dispiriting to downright bizarre. I have taken to doom scrolling in bed before breakfast to see what fresh insanity has been unleashed. Lachlan, ever sanguine, is of the view that periodic bursts of bonkers are simply part of the human condition and, like goldfish, we have found ourselves startled by the same little plastic figurine of an angry man with an unfortunate haircut that we have been swimming past for generations. It’s a commendable attitude, but I am finding “Pol Pot was definitely worse” less than a complete reassurance. I do however derive some wry humour from the fact that my current knitting audio book series of choice (the Box 88 spy series by Charles Cummings) is starting to sound unrealistically sedate. Thankfully, the days are getting longer and sunnier and there’s nothing quite as effective as the sun creeping through the curtains to drag me away from the news cycle.
Out in the wider and wilder world spring has definitely arrived. Walking around the back of the Hirsel lake a few days ago the scent of first primroses and then violets warming in the morning sun quite stopped me in my tracks. The cherry on the cake was a comma butterfly basking on the verge. I think that must be the first I’ve seen this year. Pops of purple crocus had appeared in the strangest of places in the undergrowth, clear evidence of a the local squirrels forming a guerrilla gardening squad. A deafening hum at the edge of the lake sent mum and I searching in vain for well hidden flowers in the rushes. Finally looking up, we found a mass of tiny black bees all over the willow catkins.
Lyra definitely seems perked up by the fine weather, trotting on ahead jauntily and exploring the stream now that she can get to it without traversing a quagmire of mud (my sofas are also feeling the benefit of this). As calf counting season is upon us, we have added the cow circular to the lake circuit, despite the protesting hip. The current tally stands at 5 – no blondies as yet this year but Willow from Gardener’s cottage definitely has her fingers crossed. Wily pheasants who escaped the shoot are springing up all over, safe now till next year (at least if they resist the urge to play chicken on the roads). The eagle eyed can perhaps spot the bold boy scuttling through the daffodils below.
Down on the lake the males are preening and posing and jockeying for position for all they are worth. Apart from Matthew the world’s oldest cygnet, who sails on blithely all grey and fluffy. Will Ferrel in Elf comes to mind…
So it’s definitely not all doom and gloom.
