Summer into spring

What a day! I am sunburnt! Just applied some rose water and avocado oil to the face. One side's redder than the other, giving me the fashionable 'slapped' - or is it slapper? - look. Judith took myself and the boys for a walk amongst the bluebells of Redburn country park. And what a cascade, a cacophony of bluebells. So many that the air was tainted with their sweet, gentle scent. This is what blue on a summer's day is like. It doesn't feel like 1 May, but 1 July. It's July with a nip as the wind still blows cold, cool. We marvelled at it. and at the wonder of being alone with that treasure. Far below us Belfast City with its harbour and across from us the glens of Antrim starting on its crumpled way along the coast. It was so silent. If they had put a hideous shopping mall the place would have been thronging, but because it was a marvel far greater, no one was there. Yesterday, as we whizzed through the outer ring, i blessed the many parks that surrounded Belfast, thinking that wouldn't a few developers love to get their hands on that. Coarse is the soul that cannot hear the melody and the voice of these silent places. Because these places do not make money, they are seen as unproductive. Because these places do not express themselves in the garish, vulgar language of commerce, they are seen as quaint, out of step. You cannot have dignity unless you have these places and i fear that we are in danger of losing our dignity. What kind of world is this if a walk in these places is marred by feelings such as these? Can i not simply enjoy it, without worrying about its enduring?

To be present in these places is to experience the sacred. Standing beneath the trembling grandmother beeches, you truly feel as if you are in an ancient cathederal. And then i think, that is why we have these so called places of worship. They are compromises, second places to these truly holy places which we have devastated. Instead of having the bejewelled vaulted roof of the sky, the tapestry of grass underfoot, the choir of the blackcaps and willow warblers, they give us so called civilisation instead. It's a sop, a consolation to those of us who say no, we will have our nature. It's distraction, a diversion, from the real thing. In some senses it's along the same lines as TV or radio, the incessant chittering that takes away from the reality that we destroyed something far more sacred.

As we emerged from the bluebell path, we looked up to see Oisin and Rory sitting with the shocking blue of the sky behind them, framed by grandmothers beech, and as they smiled down on us, it was impossible to tell where they began and the woods ended. They seemed to be woodland sprites, their spirits merged with the spirit of the strange summer spring we were having.

I felt A LOT better today. The clean up yesterday am did me a world of good. I bounced awake at 6.30, after going to bed at 4.30, and then did some hoovering. That was followed by a walk to the shops and then we watched Transformers: Cybertron, as we did breakfast. It was great catching up with Judith and everyone else at school. It was the first time i made any real contact with people since the funeral and everyone was incredibly warm. It is like having a second family really. A walk through Holywood means bumping into many mothers - and the occassional father - and the possiblility of endless cups of coffee. And Ghin did NOT cry all the way there, he didn't cry when i drove down to town, and he didn't cry on our drive to Redburn, or Seapark. It was amazing.