Sweet Williams

The hall is currently enlivened by a vase overflowing with Sweet Williams, a flower I’m very fond of. The bunches were two-for-a-fiver at the Co Op, which suggests that they are unproblematically in season. I am always pleased to see Sweet Williams, but even more so in a year when the concept of ‘season’ seems to be  dubiously relevant. Down by the lake, the winter cherries, usually flowering in January, are still in bloom. The spring cherries on the lawn, the vulgar pink ruffled affairs we inherited, are yet to flower, and it’s less than a fortnight off the longest day, for Pete’s sake. Roses, forget it, though some do seem to be budding, a bit. The peonies are equally slow to get started, though you’d really expect them to be in full flush by now. On the other hand, there are still plenty of tulips. Some plants, clearly, are soldiering on on a schedule dictated by length of day, or something like that (hostas, brunneras, ferns and so forth are on schedule), but most of the ones with dramatic blooms would seem, on available evidence, to go by amount of light, and so are six to eight weeks behind. People can argue to their little hearts’ content about  global warming, but nobody in possession of a garden can be in any doubt about climate chaos.