grazing, dry hills, elsewhere

After the rain, pigeons and other birds wander over the grass pecking at the soft ground in much the same as quadruped mammals graze.

The cistus in our garden is flourishing as if it were growing on the garrigue in south west France where it is native. Even on a grey day here in Tunbridge Wells our shrub is swarming with bees. Reading about the plant in The Botanical Garden by Roger Phillips and Martyn Rix, I note that the scent of the leaves is "reminiscent of hot, dry hills". I rub the leaves between finger and thumb and sniff the emergent slightly sticky sap. Hot, dry hills? I wonder if it really is. Perhaps the suggestion is enough to evoke, on its own, that distant landscape.

As I walk through the Grove or in the High Street on the look out beautiful things for this blog, I think to myself: when you see something interesting happening, something else of interest is usually happening somewhere else and out of sight.