The twenty fourth day

It had been so glorious on the twenty third day, just the day before. In the night the rains came, thundering on our tin roof. I woke often, worrying about the garden.

I went to the garden with friends. Every year the garden's owner generously opens his garden and provides wine and as much time as people want to wander around the garden. As I thought ,the damage caused by the wind and rain was very obvious. However many of the people who were there were gardeners themselves and well aware of the pattern of the seasons and the weather.

It felt odd to be amongst people in this place that has provided such a refuge this year. The usual serenity of the garden was broken by the sound of voices and laughter. The garden of course was very happy to accommodate this, as was the garden's owner.

I slipped away and wandered on my own around the garden. The tulips which had survived the deluge glowed with their individual colours, all the colours of the rainbow.

Even with the unaccustomed noise, the garden found a way to provide me with peace.

The lady beetle moved placidly on its green leaf.

The twenty third day

I am beginning to understand the 17th century Dutch phenomenon of tulip fever.

I took my daughter to the garden this morning. She played with Tiny and looked for fairies. She announced that this was the very best thing I had ever done with her.

The colours of the tulips are exquisite. One yellow tulip looked as though a Flemish master had taken a brush, dipped it in red paint, and delicately washed the petals with crimson. Others are like candy striped lollies. Still others are of the utmost simplicity - white petals with green stamens.

Some tulip beds are planted in single colour groupings - made even more beautiful by a random tulip in a completely different colour. Other beds are a riot of primary colours, joyful in the shine of the sun.

In amongst the vivid colours, the cloud stippled sky, the green leaved, large limbed trees I was struck by something.

Is there anything in the world more delicate than blossom caught in the shivery silver of a spider's web?