Gardens

British gardens and Canadian gardens are both beautiful, but both different. I'd hypothesise that it is because we have older houses in Britain and thus older gardens, and that is most certainly true, but even our newer gardens are different. Another obvious difference is the plants, some the same, many different.

A garden is nonetheless a thing to be desired. Old, new, perfectly laid out, overgrown, it is your private space where you can lie on your back and look up at the sky. Where your tortoise can hide whilst you set off your fireworks. Where you can read your book in the summer and go and sulk in the winter. There's nothing like looking out on your garden with a sprinkling of snow in the winter and there's nothing like being surrounded by greenery and soft scents in the summer.

Today was a garden day. The sky was an absolute azure as I lay on my back in Austen and Sue's garden. A bird in one of the trees picked through some of its old fluffy feathers, wriggled itself into a more comfortable position and ignored me.

Tomorrow Kevin goes back without me. I should have been going back, but have to stay another week, *fingers crossed*.

Short, but sweet, like Okanagan ice wine.