FEBRUARY ALREADY

 As I sit here and listen to the roaring of the gale (the weather forecast said it would be a light breeze) and watch the big eucalyptus bending before the wind, I can see swathes of snowdrops extending up into the wood and under the big fallen tree.

The snowdrops are good and early. 

In fact the birds were singing this morning and on Sunday we saw and heard a song thrush over the fell in Kirkby - presumably decided not to go south for the winter any more.

Flowers are appearing - the quince is early and we have small irises in the lily tub.

I have still not cut back all the hydrangeas and they look good against the light.

So, there I was shifting fallen and hacked back ivy off the snowdrops when a twig caught my glasses and whisked them into the air - but where?

Of course I could not see them now and did not want to tread on them. Off to the car for the old spare pair and a search. I found a lens quite quickly but it was ten minutes before I espied the frame and other lens.

We are hoping to get to The Garden of Cosmic Speculation in the spring. (https://gardenofcosmicspeculation.com) - an amazing construction. (And nothing like here.)

Had a couple of bramblings by the feeders - winter visitors a bit like a chaffinch. Apart from that is is the usuals - tits, sparrows, finches, pigeons and pheasants and wandering blackbirds.

Sunday morning, heavy showers and another gale. I sit in the kitchen in a fog? fugue? phug? Well anyway I have zero inclination to go weeding etc.

But things are stirring - cyclamen pushing through the leaf litter, the clematis armandii beginning to flower and daffodils in bud.

From the pond the shapes of the shrubs in front of the house stand out like living sculptures.

I go out and come in again, quickly, the sheep in the back field stand backs to the gale and then a robin sings, hope ahead.

So Barry Cryer has left us and also left us with one last great joke - 

A man and his wife are out walking one day when they spot a lone fellow on the other side of the road.

“That looks like the Archbishop of Canterbury over there,” says the woman. “Go and see if it is.”

The husband crosses the road and asks the man if he is indeed the Archbishop of Canterbury.

“F— off,” says the man.

The husband crosses back to his wife, who asks, “What did he say? Is he the Archbishop of Canterbury?”

“He told me to f— off,” says the husband.

“Oh no,” replies the wife, “Now we’ll never know.”