Foxglove Fantasy

Been playing with the foxgloves...
(Images bottom left, top centre and bottom right created with Kaleido Lens app. Images bottom centre and top right created with Tiny Planets.)
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Been playing with the foxgloves...
(Images bottom left, top centre and bottom right created with Kaleido Lens app. Images bottom centre and top right created with Tiny Planets.)
6 a.m. We're on the moor before the heat of the day. Soft cotton grass shines fluorescent. White foxgloves spire tall. Rabbits breakfast.
The Big Pond has shrunk small. Joss wades in. Begins to fish. And retrieves, after only a few minutes, a bright green frisbee. Still whole. He carries it proudly, wet face at an angle, and drops it by me. Heads back for more loot.
A plane cuts through the empty blue above. How odd! It leaves no jet stream.
Joss is pawing the water. He's patient. Searches slowly for the toys other dogs can't be bothered to retrieve.
A bee zig-zags by. Off to work. Distant traffic. People off to work, too.
Joss emerges with a second treasure. A black, nylon-covered wire circle with windmill spokes. Another kind of frisbee? He leaves it close to the first one and resumes his watery investigation.
The morning light is hazy pink. Or perhaps my sunglasses make it so. Small chunks of glass glint on the parched ground. Like fragments of ice, abandoned by the winter pond as it receded to summer size.
My pirate dog is back again. With a squashed plastic bottle this time. Dripping mud. Today's has been a good haul.
But it's time to go. Before the grass begins to release its daily pollen. Ah! Too late. Joss is sneezing as he snuffles through the long growth. I keep to the sandy path where there are scraps of red felt (a former tennis ball, perhaps?). A horse has passed this way this morning. The mementoes he left steam still.
As we saunter by the daisy patch, a man comes up behind us. He's wearing a sunhat and wielding a stick. He has no dog. I'm wary. He gestures with his long beard in Joss' direction: 'He looks as knackered as I feel!' His voice is a growl. And I'm puzzled. What makes this youngish man so knackered at 7 o'clock in the morning? He strides into the distance.
The moor is warming like an oven. Back by the car, the yellow iris are in fleeting bloom. My sneezing is now as constant and rhythmic as Joss' panting. And I'm hungry for breakfast. Like the rabbits.
Glorious weather is forecast for the next few days….the fields are spread with buttercups and clover….the hedgerows a mass of hawthorn and foxgloves…..the gardens flower-filled and bountiful. Tanned and soon-to-be-tanned limbs are finally on show and friends are looking fresh in summer frocks. The long-awaited summer is here.
I've been longing for summer, too. Just can't help it. Think it's an innate human longing - particularly when the winter has been long and hard. But me? Far from looking fresh and animated, I'm a blotchy spectacle to behold. Puffy eyes that are wrinkled from continual rubbing, a red nose that's so inflamed inside, a throat and mouth that are raw, tender pollen-coated skin (it actually HURTS to wear my glasses)….AND I'm covered in insect bites to boot. Oh the joys!
I've never found anything that significantly combats hay fever. And I've tried all sorts. All kinds of antihistamines (make very little difference and turn me into a zombie)….NAET therapy (expensive and made no difference whatsoever)….eating local honey every day for months prior to the start of the season (nope, no effect at all). Every year I try something new. Each time I move house, I hope this will be where I leave the hay fever behind (different pollens and all that). But, 36 years after it started oh-so-suddenly in the middle of my third form Latin exam, the hay fever is still as horrendous as ever.