I took this photograph yesterday of a romantic rambling rose clambering up a chimney stack against a pretty whispy-clouded sky. It was a day which felt – at last – like a typical English Summer’s Day (there’s always one of those tucked away nicely in memory).
The sky was blue, the clouds were light and high and pretty, the wind was gentle, and there was warmth from the sun – not the searing hot and humid heat we have had recently inbetween the grey and rain – but soft, gentle, comfortable warmth. It was lovely.
Below is another view of the rosy chimney taken about an hour and a half earlier – before the cirrus clouds arrived. I think the sun must have briefly hidden behind a high cloud as there is no deep shadow.
When I looked at these images last night, they reminded me of when I was a child and how I used to lie on the grass on the occasional warm dry Summer’s day, looking up at the sky watching the planes at various heights (imagining where they were going and who was travelling) and trying to make out recognisable shapes from clouds. Although I have done these things often as an adult, it was the memories from childhood which came strongest.