Dagenham spring

A gnarly old lemon-colored rose tree gripped a rotting trellis, fighting its way clear of the laburnum. The standard roses, of which there were several, had an easier time getting to the sun. Lined up like sentries with bulbous cockades of crinkly white and red petals, Mum's standards stood to attention right along the dividing fence between our home and the next door neighbor's.
"Look at my roses, look at the foxglove! And look, look at my potentilla!"
It was a huge sunburst of yellow.
"And my hydrangea. That'll be out soon!"
Six feet across, covered in green leafy frond-like leaves, Mum's shockingly pink hydrangea flowers would soon dominate the small garden and might even eclipse the potentilla.

Thoughts of Spring

Cambridge

Lavenham

Canterbury

One more from Lavenham

We toddled on a bit farther and then we found our tearoom. This was a classic Olde Worlde, hickledy-pickledy kind of place. Just what you would expect to find in a village that was thriving when Shakespeare was still an undiscovered playwright.
Across from the teashop was a private house gloriously overrun by a dazzling array of purple and white wisteria. On closer inspection, I saw that ancient branches of the tree had sprung from the pavement to enclose the lower part of the house in its gnarly grasp. But from just a short distance away, the effect was magical, the house appeared to float on a huge bed of fluffy petals. The perfect backdrop for our “elevenses,” the mid-morning break when tea or coffee is slurped down with cakey things and hot buttered toast .