Bluebells by Rosemary Morris

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Bluebells

Blessed with a vivid imagination, at the back of my mind I have an idea for a garden which plays a prominent part in a novel so I’ve been jotting down ideas. Like me, my heroine will rejoice when spring arrives, and she welcomes the blaze of colour from crocus, daffodils and narcissi. This month I welcome bluebells, enchanting flowers that bloom in gardens and beneath canopies of woodland trees.

As a child I buried my face in bunches of these fragrant flowers which I gave to my mother. Arranged in vases their bewitching scent seemed to cast a spell.  I remember picking bluebells which filled a room with bewitching perfume when my mother arranged them in a vase.one of many names for bluebells is ‘fairy flower’.

‘Fairy flowers’ are one of many nicknames for bluebells. In my fertile imagination I visualise them imagine their sweet perfume casting a spell over people walking in woodland. Folk law claims a carpet of bluebells in full flower indicates a magical place where fairies live. If I close my eyes, in my mind’s eyes I can see a delightful picture of a bluebell flower fairy.

According to legend, fairies are reputed to cast spells on the flowers left to dry if they are disturbed. Long ago children were told that if they picked bluebells they would be spirited away, and adults would be fated to wander forever in the woods. If an unlucky person heard the fairies ring bluebells when they gathered, he or she would soon die. A reason to nick name the flowers ‘dead men’s bells’.

Bluebells are toxic to those ancient myths discouraged people from touching them.  About half of the world’s bluebells grow in the U.K, and usually inhabit four-hundred years or more woodland. Not only do we look admiringly at them they attract bees, butterflies, and hoverflies. .

 

Oh, to be in England....by Victoria Chatham

 

RELEASES JUNE 15TH, 2022

 

 Sunlight filters between the newly unfurled tender green leaves of beech, oak, and ash. The air is heavy with the scent of Hyacinthoides non-scripta, the English bluebell, which covers the woodland floor like a blanket from late April into May.

 

There are approximately nine varieties of bluebell, but the United Kingdom is home to roughly half of the world’s bluebell population. This iconic springtime flower can take five to seven years to develop from seed into a bulb, then bloom into the flower most people know. They are a protected species, and there is a heavy fine for anyone found digging them up. It is also a surprisingly delicate plant. If careless footsteps crush the leaves, they can no longer photosynthesize and will die back from lack of nutrition. Some bluebells can be white or pink. Often a white bluebell is lacking its blue pigment, or it may be a version of the Spanish bluebell.

In Scotland, bluebells are known as harebells because folklore has it that witches turned into hares and hid amongst the flowers. That could be why it is sometimes known as Witches Thimble or Lady’s Nightcap. You may also have heard the folksong, The Bluebells of Scotland. If not, check out this YouTube clip https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eq14cPI0LW8. The bluebell is reputed to ring at daybreak to call fairies to the woods. If you pick a bluebell, those fairies could lead you astray, and you would be lost forever, so best not to pick them just to be on the safe side.

Symbolically, bluebells represent grace, everlasting love, good fortune, and truth. They epitomize Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love and beauty, and the Virgin Mary who represents calm and peace. They were also once dedicated to the patron saint of England, St. George. Bluebells stand for constancy, humility, and gratitude in the centuries-old language of flowers used throughout Europe and Asia. Might Shakespeare have been referring to the bluebell when he wrote of 'the azured hare-bell?'

Bluebells also have their practical uses. The Elizabethans used starch from the bulbs to stiffen their ruffs. Gum from the roots was used as glue for feathers and in bookbinding. Snake bites supposedly could be cured by their juice, although the plant’s chemical makeup is potent and can be toxic in large doses. Today bluebells inspire the perfume for hand creams and soap and are used as dyes or pigments.

 

Whichever way you look at it, whether you believe in witches and fairies or not, there is nothing more magical than sitting in an English bluebell wood in springtime.

Victoria Chatham

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NB: Images from author's collection.

Sometimes it's bluebells...by Sheila Claydon

I lead a very busy life, the same as most of you no doubt. Given the choice I would opt for a 36 hour day. That way I would stand a better chance of fitting everything in. Of course I'm perfectly well aware that busy, busy, busy is not the best way to live; a philosophy the poet William Henry Davies (1871-1940) explained far better than I can in his famous poem Leisure:

What is this life if, full of care, 

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait 'til her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

William Davies took this to extreme by living the life of a hobo and tramp both in the US and the UK for a significant part of his life, and he never did settle into paid employment. Eventually, however, through sheer doggedness and determination, he began to earn a living through his writing, and eventually became one of the most popular poets of his time. In later life he became friends with many of the literary figures of the day and also socialised with famous artists and members of the higher echelons of society. The sculptor Jacob Epstein crafted a model of Davies' head and Augustus John painted his portrait. 

Since his death many of his works have been given a musical setting and songs have been written using the words from his poems. Not bad for a hobo who not only lost a leg as a result of trying to jump a freight train at Renfrew, Ontario, but who left school at age 14 under a cloud for being a member of a small gang who stole handbags. 

There is so much more to his life, and so many poems and stories all of which can be found on the Internet, but the best is him reading his own poem, Leisure.  I have always had an aversion to listening to poets read their own works because so many of them adopt a style that is either drearily monotonous or delivered with too much emphasis on rhythm, both of which distract this particular listener from the actual words. Actors, on the other hand, will often paint a picture with their voices and, by doing so, manage to convey the true meaning of the poem. This is a generalisation of course and I would have to listen to a great many more poets before I could prove my point. William Henry Davies is, however, the exception that proves the rule. Just watch the virtual film that uses his real voice as he recites his poem Leisure at https://youtu.be/a49DdXTrEjQ and it is immediately clear that he means every word. 

So much for William Henry Davies, but what about the rest of us? Very few people can lead his sort of life, or would even want to, but what we can take from it is the need to stand and stare from time to time. I have help with this in the form of a small dog who tells me, without fail, every day, that she needs a walk, and because I am lucky enough to be surrounded by fields and woodland, we both find the time to stand and stare, even when it's raining or blowing a gale. I don't always want to go but I'm always so pleased I did by the time I return home again. Even the bare skeletons of trees in winter have a beauty that is worth watching, but it's not always bare trees. Sometimes it's bluebells.

Who could fail to feel uplifted on a walk like this, one that helped to inspire my book Mending Jodie's Heart. Set in my local countryside it eventually became the When Paths Meet trilogy, a family saga with three different romances at its heart. Without taking the time to stand and stare I might never have thought of it.

Details of all my books can be found at http://bwlpublishing.ca/authors/claydon-sheila-romance/ and at 

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A WRITER'S RETREAT by Victoria Chatham

All writers have their own processes, their own tried and true foibles which work for them. It may be having that particular cup for coffee or tea when they sit down to write, or having their favorite music playing in the background or their pets at their feet. My process is to have peace and quiet and I had that in abundance during my stay at Keystone, a two-hundred year old stone built cottage which nestles comfortably into the hillside at Blakeney in the Forest of Dean, west Gloucestershire.

The Forest covers a roughly triangular area between the Rivers Wye to the west and Severn and was famous for its timber and mineral resources. The Romans were the first to exploit the iron ore found in these ancient woodlands. Later the Forest became royal hunting grounds and was used exclusively for that purpose by the Tudors. Iron making and coal mining continued through the ages, those industries being at their peak in the 19^th Century.

But it wasn’t for any of that history that I chose the Forest for my retreat. I wanted time to research and draft Shell Shocked, the third book in The Buxton Chronicles trilogy. I found Annie McKie’s retreat on line at http://www.anniemckie.co.uk/ and it made the perfect Easter break for me. My room had a view overlooking the valley and it was a pleasure to sit outside on the balcony to enjoy it. I had my own front door with beautiful stained glass window panels and could come and go as I pleased without disturbing anyone.  

A comfortable bed ensured I slept like the proverbial log. Had the weather turned cool I could have made the room more cozy than it was with the aid of a wood-burning stove. A writing desk by the window gave me light and fresh air while I worked. Annie kept my room well stocked with tea, coffee, fruit and snacks. In the evenings I joined her and her husband Ian for the most marvelous vegetarian meals cooked in her solid fuel stove. Annie introduced me to the free-range chickens which produced our eggs and explained how she and her neighbors ran a self-sustaining gardening cooperative.

The more I talked with Annie the more I realized we had a connection. At least, I felt connected because hers was a familiar voice and face as she was a former newsreader and announcer for BBC Radio 4 and the BBC TV regional station Points West. Annie had also trained as an actor, speech and drama teacher and taught all aspects of voice and communication skills. She writes fiction and mentors writers and I had several brainstorming sessions with her.

I so appreciated that aspect of my time at Keystone. My first draft of Shell Shocked raised more questions in my mind as to which battle or battles to include in my story. It was Annie’s suggestion to not concentrate on that, but on the people who remained at home. Among the books available in my room was Winifred Foley’s A Child in the Forest, a book I had once owned and thoroughly enjoyed. Reading it again gave me ideas for my book and I quickly revised my first draft and made many more notes.

With access to the Forest only 30 seconds away from Keystone, I walked every day. It didn’t matter in which direction I went I got plenty of exercise as, if I walked downhill I had to come back up and vice versa, but wherever I went I enjoyed the views. This view is from Blakeney Hill looking across the River Severn to the Cotswold Hills. I don’t know any writer who does not use walking time as thinking time. The only thing I had to be concerned about while on these daily walks were the free-roaming sheep and pigs, especially the pigs which forage for acorns. Fortunately I only heard them squealing and grunting as they rooted up the forest floor but the freshly turned grass beside the pathways on which I walked were clear evidence of their existence. Free grazing rights, established in Norman times, applies to basically anyone who lives within the Forest purview.

During my time at Keystone the weather was gorgeous. The trees were greening and the pussy willows beside the streams along the valley bottom bursting into life. Primroses and celandines peeped beneath the hedgerows bordering the lanes and  steep paths that connected one level of the hillside with another. The sweet smelling carpets of bluebells, for which the Forest is famous, were just beginning to bloom and I was sorry to miss this spring extravaganza.       A writers retreat is at the very least a gift you can give yourself, whether you go alone or join a group. At most it is a magical period of time in which you may surprise yourself with heightened insights and productivity and, in my case, a completed book.

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Victoria lives and writes near Calgary, Alberta and visits her family in England as often as she can. She has always loved historical romances but never thought she'd write them. Now in full-time retirement but busier than ever, she writes full time. That is - when she is not enjoying the company of friends, walking, attending yoga class, volunteering at a world class equestrian center or taking weekend breaks in beautiful Banff.

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