A bird in the bush inspires two drawn by hand.

Spring is ...

What?

Sprung. Springing. Filling our days with longer light. Rubbing in the fact that the neglected garden can be neglected no more. Accelerating toward frost-free days when we can plant and restore our privacy where the old hedge was removed in the autumn. Revealing sadly what has drowned, frozen, or given-up the fight to live over the winter. And filling the garden with song.

Fling open the music room doors and sing A Little Fall Of Rain to the daffodils; maybe the willow catkins would like some Bernstein; or the primulae something from Moulin Rouge? But it's not just Littlest and siblings who are in lively voice, step outside and listen to the birds. They are falling over themselves to attract mates; show off about it when they have and establish their territory. The nest building that follows is a comparatively quiet affair.

This pair of long-tailed tits, called Lottie and Louis by Littlest (we vetoed Boob1 and Boob2!!) are nesting outside the kitchen window

I feel a Spring birdwatching project in the air ... sitting in the kitchen window and spying is a start

Tits of the long-tailed variety are sometimes called bottle-tits - not because of a partiality to tipples, night caps or milk bottle tops - but due to the oval shape of their nests which have such a small entrance that the adults have to fold their tail feathers over their heads just to squeeze inside. And all built out of cobweb and animal fur and moss. Littlest drew a bird-themed doodle -

The dogs are also enjoying the longer days. And earlier mornings (groan) when they most definitely become mine. Shorter night's sleep necessitates more time asleep during the day ... only for those without a family to run and no care but "Is mum sufficiently awake to remember to feed us?" Here they are, horizontal, hugging (or is that too anthropomorphic?) and not nesting, but nest-l-ing

And finally, Littlest, who didn't totally understand the mating, nesting, nestling scenario, wondered why she had a stick. And in particular, "Why have I got the wrong end of it? Where's the right end? Has someone else got that?"

Comments

Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

Yes - it is a real word. Flochetage. Well, a real-ish word. One invented by the painter Delacroix, when he found the dictionary cupboard bare and required a word to describe his technique of layering different coloured paints, using lightly pulled brush strokes to create texture and pattern and thereby enhance his base-layer colours (... lost? - stick around, read on and all will become clear. Or perhaps muddier ...). Flochetage implies both stringiness and threadiness. Apparently. And it sounds good - in a filling-the-mouth-with-sound sort of a way. Try it ... flochetaaaage. Not that I speak French. So I am probably mis-pronouncing it. Nor am I an artist. So what do I know about painting techniques - except that I think this one works. What I do like is the concept - you invent a new technique in whatever it is you do, hunt around for the vocabulary to describe it, find the dictionary is lacking, so make up a word of your own and announce to the world what it means. Delacroix isn&#

My beloved boy, how lucky I have been

It's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die ... and I say someone here even though the one in question was a dog - but to us he had character and a place forever in our hearts and was more of a familiar someone than some of the people in our lives. So, I'll start again - it's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die, our senses go into overdrive. We notice things that normally would be part of the background of our every day. We breathe more - or rather, we don't but what we do is notice our breathing more, as we watch his. We pause. We think. We listen to ourselves and our inner voices speak. Memories flood our dreams ... though sleep is fitful. Why am I telling you this? ... ... we lost this beautiful boy today And in the hours before he went, I saw perfect spheres of dew on blades of grass - little orbs holding micro-images of our world; a bumble bee drunk on nectar, yellow-dusted with pollen, resting in a crocus; ten - yes, ten!

Curlews, summer skies and walking in circles.

Summer skies over the Yorkshire Dales and my mind is set to rest mode. But that rest is not totally restful; there is a niggle ... a memory, a hint of childhood, something that unsettles slightly - a light brush stroke of discomfort; a gossamer breath of discombobulation and a 'Woah! Wait a moment!' moment of 'that's-not-right!' - we're about as far from the sea as it is possible to be in middle Britain and yet, I can hear the distinctive Peep! Peep! of oystercatchers and the piercing cry of curlew. Here - in the blue skies of the North Yorkshire dales and along the footpaths - and above the endless miles of drystone walls are birds that should be at the coast. Oystercatchers, with their distinctive red pliers attached to their heads feed on - you've guessed it - oyster beds. All along the coastline of the British Isles, their distinctive cry is the call of summer. Drowned out somewhat by the banter of seagulls but sharp and

Walking The Dog

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