parrot tulips, old walk, litter

This morning, a sunbeam , on a vase of parrot tulips, spotlights just one of the lacy red and green flowers .

From the train, I see the top of a slope where I used to walk through a wood above the Darenth valley. It is now the route of a two-lane carriageway.

Litter on the door mat? Not litter, wisteria petals.

bells, wisteria, ferns

The sound of church bells, not so often heard nowadays, drifts across the town.

This morning, through the glass panel of the front door, I am greeted by trails of wisteria.

A fern appears, its new fronds curled like green springs.

soloman's seal, street scene, large coffee

From the downstairs window this morning, I wonder at the drooping green and white bells of soloman's seal polygonatum. The leafy stems have have shot up quickly this year. Or perhaps so much else has been going on that I haven't noticed them. Solomon's seal again at the farmers market, and along side it, though in no way related, dicentra, whose pink and white blooms, different in structure, also hang from long stems, like bells. Its common name is bleeding heart.

In the centre of the town, a bearded man is manoeuvring a large street cleaner, with rotating brushes behind and two headlamps in front. It sweeps and sucks up cigarette ends and other litter. Above the pedestrian way, formerly the beginning of Calverley Road, a banner announces a £75.00 fine for anybody discarding litter on the street including chewing gum. At the entrance to Calverley Road, two men in yellow gilets stand around. Their badges proclaim them to be "street scene enforcement officers".

Outside Costa, Heidi brings me the biggest cup of coffee I have ever seen. "That's a large one," she says. It is like those big mugs you sometimes see in France or Belgium for cafe au lait, except that this one has two handles like ears, very comforting.

earthworms, Lord Bute, new leaves

While I am preparing the soil for sowing seed, a female black bird gathers earthworms, fillets them tidily, and makes a bundle of the fillets in her beak.

Last year a pelargonium called Lord Bute, which I had in a pot, barely flowered and when it did, I managed to break off the flowering stems, by clumsy watering. I trimmed it back and wintered it in the greenhouse, where it seems to have flourished. Today, I bring it back to the garden where, although a little leggy, it is showing off more dark crimson and carmine blooms than I would ever have thought possible.

A gentle breeze stirs the new, fresh green leaves on the lime tree, which, for the first time this season, make a hushing sound; "shush, shush.."

watering trees, poppies, raindrops

Yesterday in the Grove, gardeners pump water from a tank into strips of hose, which have been sunk into the earth at the foot of saplings planted a couple of years ago. They turn the earth over with a fork to eliminate competition from weeds.

Small orange poppies pop up at random in the vegetable garden, their petals the colour of barley sugar.

This morning raindrops on the leaves outside the window. The first for two or three weeks. I think with pleasure of the seedlings and newly sown seeds in the vegetable garden, which I have been watering for the last week or so in the absence of rain.

up-to-date, near enough, hazel down

"This is the time. This is contacts. This is you." A woman explains her mobile telephone to her mother. "Much more up-to-date than mine," says the mother.

Scientists, I read, have discovered a planet, not much bigger than Earth, covered in oceans, and only 20.5 million light years away.

At this time of year hazel down floats on the wind like swarms of pale insects. They form little piles and drifts. On a cobweb, the combination of silver threads and white down looks like the milky way.

moon, llamas, wall

A dandelion clock is one way of describing the pale sphere of the full moon in broad daylight.

From the train window, you can see on the left between Tonbridge and Sevenoaks, a field of llamas.

A big panel swings from a crane high above a building site. One day someone will lean against the wall, which is not yet in place, or stick a photo or a poster on it.

fritillaries, banknotes, charlock

Snake's head fritillaries grow in a shady flowerbed. The pale buds hang forward modestly as though not aware of the striking, spotted flowers they will become.

In the bank, the rustle of bank notes drowns the rustle of spring.

Two charlock or wild mustard plants grow in the corner of a wall and adoining pavement. It is a plant you usually think of in hedgerows and fields. Its yellow flowers look lost and dejected.

food novel, tidying, balloon

I have just finished Emile Zola's novel Le Ventre de Paris. I read it slowly and with great enjoyment. It is the story of Florent, a political convict who has escaped from Devil's Island and returned to Paris soon after the completion of the Les Halles food market, in the 1860s. He takes refuge in the house of his brother, who is a charcutier and his sister-in-law, la belle Lisa. The story takes us through Florent's return to political activity and the growing clash of temperament and personality with the well fed and contented stall holders and tradesmen in the market. It tracks the growing hostility of Lisa ,who sees her livelihood and comfortable existence threatened by the presence her brother-in-law. Typical of a number of set pieces, where the descriptions of the market and its attendant trades are skillfully woven into the plot, is one, where Florent describes his escape with a friend. The scene is the kitchen of the charcuterie. His brother and assistants are making black pudding. His niece, a girl of nine is sitting on his knee by the fire and asks him to tell her the story of "the man who gets eaten by wild animals". Lisa is sewing. It is Florent's friend who was eaten by wild animals. But he tells the whole story, where he himself nearly dies of starvation, in the third person. It is hard to know which is more gruesome - the story of his ordeal in the jungle or the preparation of the boudin. As he tells the story, jugs of pigs blood are brought into the kitchen and onions are fried in giants saucepans on the stove; the blood is stirred into the onions, and the sausage mixture stuffed into pigs' intestines and curled up like a hose for further cooking. The contrast between the tall, emaciated and essentially gentle Florent and his plump audience is at the heart of the book.

I tidy up in the garden, cut back excesses amid burgeoning plants, and savour the smell of sap released in the sunshine.

As I sit in the garden with a cup of tea, a red balloon sails overhead. Its retaining string waives loose like a tail. It seems to know where it is going.

Lion, lily-of-the-valley, peeling

Half way up a gravel drive which I pass on my way down Mount Sion, I spot a lion lurking in some shrubs. It is a black, porcelain line from Indonesia, almost life-size, but all the better and, paradoxically, more realistic for being stylized.

Lily-of-the-valley unfurling.

Today, while peeling half a pomegranate I take a step forward in this imprecise art. I had left the fruit in the fridge over night. To my surprise, this morning, the skin came away more easily than usual from the pods of seeds. And most pleasing of all, the juice did not spurt all over the place.

gull steals car, Bulgarians, cats

A fat, sleek herring gull occupies the roof of a car, one of a line of cars parked in the High Street of St Leonards. It walks to and fro brushing, from time to time, against the aerial, which is fixed to the roof above the windscreen. It seems to have assumed ownership of the vehicle. It doesn't seem disturbed by on-lookers but appears rather to enjoy showing of its new possession.

Bulgaria seems a long way from Tunbridge Wells and Tunbridge Wells from Bulgaria, so I like the notice outside a newsagent's window, which simply asks: "Are there any Bulgarians in Tunbridge Wells? "

Cats have the capacity to stay still for a long time, without becoming bored or restless. It must be part of the instinct to lie in wait for prey. I see a cat sitting absolutely still in the window of a house. I mistake it, at first, for a china cat.

bluebells, garden, seagulls

Bluebells need shade, which is why, for the most part, they grow in woods. But sometimes you see them round the bowl of a single tree, where they survive like blue shadows.

From the train train window the countryside looks to me like a garden. Hawthorn, also known as May, because of the month in which it usually flowers, is already draping the hedgerows with white. Despite the speed of the train, I identify: primroses, wood anemones, ramsons or wild garlic, stitch wort, gorse and of course bluebells in the woods.

I watch seagulls glide into the wind above the front in Hastings. They ride into the wind overhead, until they almost come to a halt, before wheeling and swooping away. As I watch the gulls, I see, through the glass door of the restaurant outside which we are sitting, a gull of a pale milky colour, almost ghost-like. It is the reflection of a gull in the glass, a strange contrast, but one which for confused me for a few seconds.

bouquet, down, raptor And photos

Ego

Trunk line

In the a crack between two paving stones in a neighbouring front garden, presented as a bouqet: a group of bluebells, a dandelion flower and a dandelion clock.

Down from hazel and other trees begins to float on the wind abovethe vegetable garden.

As I sit outside looking up at the afternoon sky, I see what must be a raptor - a sparrow hawk perhaps - circling, without once moving its wings, on a thermal, high above the edge of the town. It disappears. A few minutes later, I see it again patroling the same patch of sky. I go indoors to fetch my field glasses, but it seems to have gone for good.

flowering cherry, less, changing language

Half way up the hill, a massive flowering cherry spreads its white clouds of blossom and disperses its amazing scent.

Can I help you? I doubt it. I doubt it.
Is there anything, in particular you were looking for?
There was, but I have forgotten what;
A troubling need lurked, but is no more.
You are fortunate then, and richer for having less.

In an office I overhear: '"How are you? " "Good, thank you!"'

fine weather voices, blooms, water

An exchange of voices in Mount Sion drifts through the hedge to where I sit in our little garden on this warm and peaceful day: " ...Fine. You alright? Beautiful!"

Wisteria
Suddenly, their scent,
Heavy blooms; their sharp shadows
On the white-washed wall.

Water sprays out and drums where it falls from the rose of my watering can.

sun-down poem, policeman, ranunculus

As a result of quoting a poem here, which I thought I was alone in knowing and liking, someone who apparently shares my taste for it, has been in touch. This is a good example of the pleasures of the Internet and of blogging. Sam Thurston writes: "I have loved that poem (I heard a noise and wished for a sight) for over 40 years ever since I read it in the same volume you did when I was 21." His full comment and the poem, as quoted, are in my archive for Sunday April 1. (See column on right).Thank you Sam for getting in touch.

In the Pantiles, a community policeman passes the time of day with the owner of a cafe. They are a new breed, these police community support officers. He has a , pedal bike with a yellow saddle bag and the inscription "police" printed on it in black letters. He seems well equipped for the job. He wears a ridged, grey crash helmet and a yellow, sleeveless jacket. There are pockets and pouches everywhere, a telephone on his shoulder, a dynamo and powerful light on his bike. Without all this paraphernalia, you would barely notice him, a middle aged man in spectacles merging in with the crowd.

A friend brings a couple of ranunculus flowers , one bright yellow and one bright red. Their tight balls of petals seem far removed from the simple and often invasive buttercup, which is the familiar wild flower at the heart of the Ranunculacae family. Only the toothed leaves remind you of the connection.

early thistle, wooden tulips, raising hats

The early stages of a giant thistle: I look down on and see its leaves spread out on the gravel, from which it is growing, like a green star.

In Grosvenor Road precinct, someone is selling painted wooden tulips. I do like them. But I prefer them to other artificial flowers made from silk or plastic. There is no pretence about them; they do not pretend to be tulips.

When I was a child I was taught to raise my hat to grown-ups. So, at the least encounter, off came my black and white school cap . Later, when the fashion for wearing hats had begun to fade, I still raised my hat in greeting, on the rare occasions when I wore one, whether a trilby, a bowler or something floppy in tweed. I still have the hat-raising instinct but hardly ever wear the sort of hats, which are made for raising, and there are fewer people around who would understand the greeting. Today, I see, in the distance, some oldie friends of the hat-raising culture. I think: they are too far away for a verbal greeting, so it would be ideal to raise my hat and wave it in a courteous way. But I realize that I am wearing a base-ball cap, and reflect that this is not the sort of garment that you would be expected to raise. The same goes for the beret basque, which I also wear. I reflect that these, like hats which are part of a uniform, were never intended for raising.