There’s just something about daffodils. Seeing them stand proudly, being battered by the wind and frozen by the hail, born too soon. They normally start to bloom end January, early February but the cold spell this year lasted much longer than usual. So, they waited. Slowly, their yellow petals emerged, shining in the early Spring sun. Now, the whole drive-way is lined with them- golden daffodils, those optimistic flowers.
You know when people talk about 1980 something, the year of the heatwave and you think, that’s great, but those don’t exist anymore, especially not in England. Summer 2016. Finally, I can refer to 2016 in 10 years time as the year of the heatwave too. Not one, but a succession of them, sparking BBC articles covering how best to get sleep in a heatwave, causing runways to melt and train tracks to be deemed too hot for use. For me, it meant being able to spend the whole day under the sun umbrella, sapphire blue skies with cotton candy clouds, and frying my phone if I accidentally left it in the sun too long.
Prune jumped out of the Audi’s boot. She pricked up her ears, taking in the sound of leaves rustling in the light breeze, the call of a blackbird perched in a cherry tree. Her nose twitched, distracted by the scents in the warm air. Then her face broke into a smile and her tail swept back and forth ferociously. She remembered this place! Her emotions mirrored mine- if I had a tail I’d have wagged it too. It was a beautiful July day and we were back in the Loire- our favourite place in France.
