Saturday, 21 May 2011
For the last couple of weeks I have been reading a book called 'Urban Gardener' by Elspeth Thompson, which was published in the 90's. My own garden is about as far removed from an urban garden as it is possible to be, and yet I have been enthralled by her garden and allotment articles from the Sunday Telepgraph, which have been put together in book form. You can imagine my shock when I looked up her blog, hoping to enjoy more of her style of writing, only to find that she had died earlier in the year, aged only 48. Why should I be so saddened when I don't even know the lady; well, I felt, through her writing, that I had come to know her and her gardens, and I shall miss not knowing how she is progressing and the invitation into her world. I have another book of hers, although I hadn't linked her name with it, it is called 'The Wonderful Weekend Book' which I also found inspirational. She took her own life, and what I can't understand about depression, is how someone who obviously loves life (or at least appears to in her style of writing) could get to a point when live is no longer worth living. I don't suppose I will ever know.
at May 21, 2011
Sunday Early morning. We drove down to the lake for a stroll in the autumn sunshine; the air was chilled in the shadows but the sun was...
Saturday A nice, calm morning - no wind, not too cold, no sun but still bright. Checked on C next door to see if she was OK and she sa...
" It was a morning of ground mist, yellow sunshine, and high rifts of blue, white-cloud-dappled sky. The leaves were still thick on th...