So the thing about English flowers is not that they in themselves are so exciting, they are like flowers anywhere, and the gardens are not that spectacular, really they are rather small. What it is about English flowers is that they exist, and they are desperately loved in their existence.
Because of all the grey, the intermittent sputtering summers, the damp, flowers are heavier in meaning than in the sun soaked areas. The crocus when they bloomed this spring gave me such a sense of hope! And when the first pansies came out in our walkway Aurora squealed with delight. I will never forget it. And I dearly adore my pots of petunias and geraniums and diamathus and daisies...just to sit on the deck near them and feel them growing, knowing I too am growing, despite the weather conditions.
When people photograph here they often say, oh get that nice bunch of colors! Aren't the colors nice in this photo, etc... They speak of light like nobody else I have ever heard, painting as full of light and shadow, of the shades of light, of the sense of light like it is tactile. When rainbows grace us people stop and notice, stand on the street for a moment and breathe it in. Color is appreciated.
Not quite Inuit or Polar Bears, the English do not live in a world of white, which is it's own stark beauty, but rather in a world of light and dark grey, with color splashes everywhere. The wellies (rain boots) I ordered today are bright orange..I wouldn't have been caught dead in them in America.. ;-)
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