If only I had and English garden, I wouldn't mind such dreary British weather.
I have just sighed this sentiment to myself a mere second ago, and that is because the weather as of late has been sketchy. Sometimes warm, sometimes hot and sometimes cool. Today it was overcast, I awoke to a horrid pelting rain storm, that stopped only long enough for a few hours of work.
Now as I tap away on my keyboard it has begun to rain again, the sky is grey and dreary and the air is thick with a bit of fog or mist, I'm not sure which. I have some romantic idea in the back of my mind that this is the kind of weather that my English writer hero's must have lived in perpetually.
Perhaps Jane Austen or, say Emily Bronte met with such weather of cold and rain, sitting at their desks the scratching of there quill pens the only audible sound, save that of the patter rain.
I should very much like an English garden, carpeted with wild flowers, white washed fences and trellises draped with roses. I should love to watch that garden get washed with showers and showers of rain, from a sun room enclosed with just windows. Its a bit reminiscent of Beatrix Potter, or I should say how I imagine Beatrix Potter would pass her time whilst writing one of her children's books.
How could I not be inspired by watching delicious green get showered by the sky ? I would if I had an English garden. I would watch the leaves drip with natures life giving elixir and the sun as it breaks through the clouds to bath the newly washed foliage in liquid gold.
I wont go on to bemoan the lack of foliage in my life,
I wont wail and cry at the sparse plants that I do have.
No I shall be happy to dream of the English garden I am soon to have.