I woke to thick mist on Sunday morning and a mad longing to find my anchorage in Mount Congreve Garden. A tiny patch of blue eventually forced its way through and I ran out of the sleeping house to be greeted by a Mount Congreve that I had never witnessed there before ~ dancing colours, shadows and a luxurious vibrancy that made my heart sing.
While I’d been waiting for the mist to lift, I’d ascertained that Sunday (April 6) was the day that William Wordsworth had been appointed Poet Laureate in 1843. The daffodils in Mount Congreve were in full bloom and as I walked down the avenue, I heard a woman saying to her male companion: You can certainly see what William Wordsworth was talking about. It took every ounce of restraint not to burst into the last stanza of The Daffodils which has punctuated my life in so many ways:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils. (William Wordsworth)
And, as I wandered through the magnificent gardens, W.B. Yeats seemed to be everywhere with his great lines from The Song of Wandering Aengus:
And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.
So here’s a hint of what unfolded during my wanderings:
Remember that Mount Congreve Gardens are open each Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday from 10am-5.30.