For the past few days the garden has been full of green shieldbugs, resplendent in their breeding plumage, pairing up and having fun. Just a few singletons appear to have been left out of the festivities, and this unlucky chap (or chapess) is one of them. A couple of days ago it sat looking on as another pair made whoopee nearby, but they’ve now gone off about their own concerns, and all that Billy No-mates can do, it would seem, is keep sitting out in the open, in the hope of being noticed and asked to dance. I’m anthropomorphising again, I know, but it seemed to me that it looked especially fed up this morning, and I have to say, I felt much the same. Not quite as bad though probably: we were both equally wet, but I was at least pleased to see the shieldbug, and the feeling was very clearly not reciprocated.
Have I mentioned that I’m sick to the back teeth with this weather now? Yes, I thought I might have.
This morning, courtesy of The Knowledge, I learned that the celebration of spring as a time of beauty and renewal only got going here under the Normans. According to Eleanor Parker, Anglo-Saxon writers much preferred winter, because “they loved to describe bleak landscapes and harsh weather, which spoke to them of life’s hardships and the suffering that leads to wisdom.” She goes on to say, “For earlier English poets, spring might have brought blossom and slightly more sunshine, but they also saw it as a turbulent season, still cold, and prone to blustery storms. It could be a time of hunger, when the last of the winter provisions were running low, before the earth started to produce food again. The few Anglo-Saxon poems which have much to say about spring are not necessarily positive about it. One poet, searching for a way to sum up the season in a single line, could only manage: ‘Spring is frostiest; it’s cold the longest’.”
Right now, I’m in full sympathy with the Anglo-Saxons.
