In Praise of Grey DaysFriday 9th June 2000
IT STAYS DULL, but there's not more than a spattering of rain all day. A milky haze lies over the landscape. You might want glorious blue skies at this time of year, or dramatic summer thunderstorms, but there's something to be said for a plain ordinary grey day.
Well, it's ideal for getting on with plain ordinary everyday things, like writing my next book. Writers have a love/hate relationship with interruptions. It's quite a lonely existence, the writing part of it, so if there were no interruptions whatsoever, I'd worry that I was becoming a hermit. But one or two interruptions soon interrupt the flow of work. Today I'm called out on an errand, but, as Barbara has got the car, at least it gives me an excuse for a walk.
The Cow Parsley along the farm track is changing from lacy umbels of flower to sprays of green seedpods, like little skittles. Grasses, such as Cocksfoot (left) are coming into flower.
On Stinging Nettles small black hairy caterpillars are gathered around the tassels of flowers. Further along the track papery white cocoon is attached to a plant stem.
The scent of a rose hangs in the still air. It's not Dog Rose, which is now in pinkish blossom, nor Field Rose, which has yet to flower. It's growing alongside the railway marshalling yard in a hedgerow that was planted about ten years ago. It has a small white flower. It doesn't form such a vigorous bush as the dog rose, but it isn't scrambling all over the place like most field roses.