April 12, 2002
Spring has moved on. The loveliest memory, lasting even until now, is the primroses, in Towersey and Aston Sandford churchyards, and clustered on the banks of brooks among fading snowdrops and white violets. The brooks really are ‘weed winding’: such a fresh green green. On the old railway there are white violets too and the small, gold tufts of the coltsfoot flower. Yesterday I noticed that the leaves had begun to follow. Tussilago they’re called. And Jean has a terrible cough. Perhaps we should try some. My new bike is fine and Jestyn and I christened it with miles of riding, and beer at the Three Horseshoes. The new bike has made me love my old bike more. To each its place. Now the fields have thick planted grass growing (unless it is a new crop I don’t know about). Young beef cattle relax in the fields. The blackthorn blossom flourishes along the railway where the dark sloes hung last Autumn. Oh God, the sweetness of it all. It would be nice to celebrate with a pipe of really fragrant mixture. Hope they have tobacco in Heaven. Now the meadowsweet grows in my pot, imported from Devon by way of Finchley, and cow parsley grows by Paul’s back fence. Long live Dollis Parva. Easter, gold and blue, has passed. For a few weeks yet the resurrected Christ walks the earth.