CORNWALL: 1925 is going out, as it came in, dying on a gale. All day and all night a sense of crisis occupies the house, as in a time of thunder; for the great noise never ceases, the wind from over the Atlantic battering the walls and volleying down the chimneys. All day the masses of rain press past the windows in unending column; the sea, the moor, even the garden is blotted out, and every leaf in the garden is straining at its leash.
Yet there are flowers opening even now. As I came up the hill last night I flashed the bicycle lamp on to a drenching wall beside the road: yes, the winter heliotrope was out, its pale flower spikes springing out of the chinks of the wall and its fragrance not quite drowned. Today there are more of the vivid sparks of cyclamen colour than there were yesterday, and every day now more rose-red bells hang out on the epacrises, and more white ones on the tree heaths. There are even bells opening on the Cape heath, Erica Wilmoreana. The snowdrop spikes are showing; and up-country the first aconites are out.
Allow content provided by a third party?
This article includes content hosted on newspapers.com. We ask for your permission before anything is loaded, as the provider may be using cookies and other technologies. To view this content, click ‘Allow and continue’.
Comments are closed.