For a precious few weeks, when the bluebells bloom, the fields and woods behind our house become a fairyland. I take my dog and my morning coffee with me and sit in the middle of an ocean of blue...and for that moment, everything is perfect. Health problems and deadlines and other worries slip away. The world is beautiful, mysterious, and full of magic. The sun is shining and the air is sweet as honey.
Part of the magic, notes Adam Nicholson ("In Praise of the Bluebell"), is the bluebells' transience. "The flowers have to beat the closing over of the tree canopy and their rush to become themselves is what makes them taut and glossy, with so much damp in them that you can't rub one bluebell leaf past another. The mineral green leaves cling to each other, like wet flesh to wet flesh. It doesn't last. As soon as they are perfect, they are over. Within a couple of weeks, the entire population will be drowned as if a flood has run through the wood. Now is the moment: it's when spring turns into summer."