No apologies for continuing to talk about long grass. In the interests of the environment it seems that stretches of grass which were previously cropped in early summer are now allowed to grow long and wild. In Tunbridge Wells this is the case in The Grove, on the wide verges of London Road and in Clearly Park opposite the Decimus Burton houses, and I dare say elsewhere. If this land management philosophy saves money so much to the good, but its chief benefit is to attract butterflies and bees and to ease the eye and please the other senses too. Even our hearing. Listen to the wind blowing through the seed heads.
It rains nearly every day now. Except Thursdays. Mrs Plutarch noticed that on her birthday three Thursdays ago, the sun shone for most of the day. Last Thursday it was the same story, and this Thursday, it has been fine all day until about an hour ago when it began to shower. Hats off to her, I say. Forecasters using science to make their predictions do not seem to do much better. We're planning a picnic for next Thursday.
It nearly escaped me but I see from Blogger's stats that a couple of days ago I wrote my 2,500th post. I have missed daily posting only very seldom. It has begun to feel like second nature, yet sometimes it seems that I only started blogging the other day. One thing is certain. I would at a loss to know what to do if my senses were not sharpened by the process of recording the events which, at least for me, give them meaning.