Yesterday, was ‘the first mild day of March’ i.e, the first warm day of that season, which we always celebrate by reading aloud Wordsworth’s poem, which goes
‘It is the first mild day of March,
Each moment sweeter than before,
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air,
That seems a sense of joy to yield,
The the bare trees and mountains bare,
And the grass in the green field.‘
And so on. I know there are some people who would claim that Spring does not begin until near the end of March, but every novel, piece of poetry, or garden, for that matter, is against these people – and I am too. At least – I am against them in the sense that I do not believe early March is never Spring, nor do I believe it is always so. I believe that when green bulbs are shooting up from the ground – when the sky is blue without a cloud, when the bare trees are budding and primroses grow round our feet, it is Spring. It is this which defines when that lovely season comes – not any number on the calendar. The poem which brought us onto this topic itself argues this, and clearly with the disputed right March has to be often called the first month of Spring in mind –
‘No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar:
We from to-day, my friend, will date
The opening of the year’
Let me continue – we had a lovely day. Mum and Granny brought out some little plastic cases for plants with parcels of compost that puff up when you put warm water on them inside, and we put planted some vegetable seeds in in them. I made some labels to stick on the top of the plastic lids so we knew which plants were which. It is so exiting to think it will soon be Summer again, with the garden as lush and green as Paradise, or the Elysian Fields.
I will take this opportunity of copying in a part of A Macclesfield Maiden (a semi-autobiography I am writing) that describes the garden in the months of May and June, for I think it is necessary for the readers of my blog to get some idea of what it looks like.
It was apring, and the garden was leafy, green and blooming. The white paint of the old Georgian house was radiant amid its leafy trimming, and the large bay-windows glinted in the morning sun. The rose shrubs were dotted over with blooms of every shade of pink, and glossy leaves shone in harmony with the polished windows. The mossy lawn was all sprinkled with daises and speedwell, and little clover. The buttercups looked like tiny golden cups of radiant sunlight. Above the lawn was a patch of grass which would later in the year blossom into a wild meadow, white with oxeye daisies and dotted with the pink of ragged robin and red champion. Then the whole thing would be a tangle of bright, loose, flowing flowers and grasses. Now, before the stage of flowery glory, it had a softer beauty; one could see the deferent shapes of the leaves; ferny vetch, bitter salad burnet, common clover, and the tiny, delicate little leaves of the honey-golden birds foot trefoil. And here and there among the delicate leaves you might find a little treasure; a small flower, burning with brightest colours. The meadow in its early days looked very much like a detail of grass around the feet of the three graces in the Primavera. The painting shows with so much detail the grace of the ferny leaves and long-stemmed tiny flowers that grow amongst them.
At the top of this flowery patch of ground was a wide cobbled place. If you turned off this area to the left, you were in a parterre hedged with box and rosemary, with gravel paths, and a monument edged with time and topped with a grecian stone vase. If you continued straight a head, you entered into another garden, walled by somewhat crumbling yorkshire stone, and slightly shaded by the overhanging branches of the elm trees. The sun shone through the green elm leaves so that they looked like pale stained glass in a church window. Two beds edged this garden, both full of rich soil, and full of many plants. At the top of the garden was a small stone area with fruit trees growing along the wall at the back of it. But now we must travel back down the garden, and turn our faces once more to the green lawn, for it is there that we will find our heroine. Do you see the bright lawn once more, with its rose bushes and herbs, and the great white house behind it?
On a little grassy hill, with her head just under a branch of one of the taller rose bushes, a little girl sat, quietly reading. She had crisply curling shoulder-length hair of deep brown, the colour of fresh, rich garden soil, and the sun was shining upon it so brightly that it gave it a bright sheen like polished copper. Her eyes were of a clear sky blue; they looked just like the sky. She lowered her book, and looked around her and bright, shining garden.
Now, can you all picture the garden round my house?
Hear are some photos of yesterday
That low wall in front of the grassy hill is where the girl in the story (me) was sitting. Notice the rose bushes.
Is not that crocus exquisitely lovely? Look at the delicate stripes up the petals – a bit like leaf skeletons, or like the topmost branches of the copper beech when they seem to net together. That crocus, and another one which is shown in the ‘featured image’, are actually as old as the copper beech. I mean, of course they haven’t had flowers on them all through those many winters, but their bulbs are as old as the copper beech. There used to be lots and then someone dumped a load of earth on top to make the ground flatter, and only these have managed to grow through. It is astonishing how much people these days seem to like covering up beautiful things. I didn’t mention it in the post, but Steve and Julie told us that the beautiful old oak door which I described in ‘Bronte Country’ used to be covered in chip-board, and they had to scrape it all off. Can you believe that! And when we first came to our house, people had put tarmac all over the old cobbles, and gravel over the paving stones. I do not think it is fair to the people who lived long ago to cover up all their work – or to nature to cover up her work.
I do not wish to end this entry with complaining, so I will make one more description of the loveliness of our day.
It is truly incredible in how bright a mood a bright day can put me – the sunlight in the air seems to flow inside and light my very soul. I am truly blessed to have such a wonderful garden, however much people may have tried to ruin it with tarmac and gravel. How lovely it is to roam about it, looking at the primroses and the daffodils and snowdrops and crocuses, and to sit upon the soft, spongey moss that grows amongst the grass.
Note for those who are impatient to hear more about Bronte Country: I have not completely neglected the story of our trip to Ponden Hall – I am actually writing another entry about it. But I will not be posting much of anything for a few days, because I am trying to get the second half of the art essay done for my art course. When I do, I will publish that on here.