The start of the apple cycle.

Standing in the broken shade I can feel the skin around my eyes smooth. I switch on the flying lawn-mower filter and the ambiance is now disturbed only by the distant grumble of light traffic (no trains or planes for a moment). Birds in far trees call and sing. In high fidelity, three dimensional sound, my ears fill with the buzzing of honey bees. The fresh pink, veined blossoms fill the air with the appetising scent of apple. Sun touches and warms cryptic patterns on my skin through the boughs and buds. Over-long lawn tugs gently on my toes.

Not lambs. Better!

A morning spent playing in the garden, the Solent being a bit breezy. This is evidently the magnolia time. Stellata varieties are well out with the tulips just behind; crowding in on the daffodils and primulas that have only had a couple of weeks of spring to themselves. The last week has been particularly mild, bringing on the camellias, launching the bumble bee queens as well as a host of other insects. I was very surprised to find a large slowworm just outside my front door, taking advantage of the slight warmth of the concrete path before slipping into undergrowth when I disturbed her.

We took a short walk to the sea front at Hurst Spit this afternoon and poked our heads above the shingle bank enough to confirm that the decision to not sail had been a wise and well informed one.

Back in the car-park I noticed that the black Skoda in the next bay had a peppering of sulphurous green pollen coating all of its angles and faces. The shape seems more stealth fighter than aesthetically pleasing to me. It must live somewhere under a willow or a hazel hedge. The windscreen wipers had swept the film from the glass and left it as a yellow stripe on the off-side; a colourful addition to the stark outline.

Forest snaps

I may have casually mentioned that I have the option to drive across beautiful countryside on my daily commute and, other than a few special features, such as the custard maple, this has been very much left to the readers' imaginations.

Since I've just adopted a camera and it needed testing, I thought I might correct this lack of visual information in some small way.

This first picture is a bit of a lie because it is taken from about 3 inches off the ground. I'm standing in a bog and the conifer tree is next to a small pond in a dip in front of me. Behind me the silver birch scrub has been cleared to restore the heathland and below the line of trees on the horizon you can see a line of flowering gorse. This is about 200 yards from my normal route.

This chestnut pony was in a small herd of about 10 mares. She looks a bit pregnant to me and will likely foal at the end of May or the beginning of June.

This grey is a particularly hairy individual. She has her winter coat. This picture was taken close to my longer route to work a couple of weeks ago.

This is a striking patch of tussocks on the edge of a marsh I pass regularly. I've been meaning to take a closer look and a photograph for ages. These features are the result of years of colonisation by ants that have created raised mounds in the marshy ground so that they can keep their nests dry. The whole area is closely cropped by ponies and deer and develops a unique and fascinating flora.

Here is a detail of one of the mounds. 

Fire and ..

I saw some butter fly today,
And geese and ducks and gulls at play.
This morning I was on the sea,
The afternoon in forestry.
I work to eat, that is my sorrow,
Or I would do the same tomorrow.

Through the anonymity of the commute.

Filling my mirrors this morning, queuing into the market town, two tonnes of German engineering, a huge grey Mercedes. We lost contact at the first T-junction and I glanced up immediately after to find the bulky thing still there, but now separated by another grey Mercedes, just a slightly sleeker model.

On the one-way, waiting for the lights, they drew parallel. I looked in, a small lady, dark hair, perched on the driver's seat.

A bright morning with moderate temperatures (for the time of year). A perfect day for a drop-top, impractical, unreliable Italian model in red. Don't wear that corporate cage, swap Teutonic for frivolous. "Live a little" I thought. We went our ways.

Out and a-boat.

Saturday was still and quite beautiful on the water, but not sailing weather; picnic on the boat weather, watching the gulls and the visitors to the town quay.

Sunday, though duller and initially still, had a gathering breeze through the day and, while it was not enough to get us to the island without motored assistance, got us back easily. We motored down river slowly, peacefully until we came to a start line of dinghies. They let us through, politely, despite it being less than three minutes to the off. So we followed a small fleet down the river channel and shortly after another small fleet followed us and, with great fortune and a little consideration from the ferry there was nothing trying to get up river at the same time. Once on the last leg of the channel, by the marshes, and with a strengthening breeze on our right cheeks we flew the jib and, by releasing the main sheet and turning slightly to the West, the main went up too.

Half a dozen boats up by us, as well as forty or so dingies that all turned West and, to the East, maybe a dozen more boats towards Cowes, all drifting in the faintest of mists that clung to the water, blurring distant headlands into water-colour washes.

We took a long starboard tack until the flooding tide pushed our path too far East to meet the next harbour entrance. Tacked up into the relative shallows again, but the wind wasn't up to beating the cross-flow unless we had gone all the way up to the castle and wanting our lunch and a bit of shelter, since the sun was only reluctantly showing, we tacked out again having made all of 250 yards and resigned ourselves to using the engine to our destination once we hit the deeps again.

A few rays of sun broke through, spotlighting small sections of rippled water, occasionally a boat, sometimes even our own. We moored on a finger into wind. I jumped the rail with the stern line, although there was really no hurry as we came in in fine control.

Our favourite island coffee house with a shared tea slice, our own sandwiches and an apple. We re-acquainted ourselves with the port as the slow rhythm of the arriving and departing ferry made waves in the marina. We worried over wear and tear, planning repairs.

Just before slack tide we cast off again to reverse the journey. A single port tack straight across; meeting the channel half way to let the outgoing ferry by and then chased up stream by its returning twin which passed us before the wave barrier, forcing us to choose a side and start the engine.

First time under canvas this year, six or seven miles. Wind increasing 2 to a good 3 and overcast.

Beauty soaks in

Water, not flowing;
Held in air, veiling distance,
Washes my dull soul.