By: Blonde Two
The Two Blondes have recently solved a mystery. It is one that has been bugging them for a few years now but our detective skills must be more finely tuned than before because now we have finally worked it out. We have the answer to our burning question, we have acquired the knowledge, we are masters of our own destiny.
The question to which we have been seeking an answer is a simple one – “why do we always miss the bluebells?”
The story goes like this – Blonde One tells me that she has a beautiful bluebell walk up on Dartmoor to show me. She tells stories of walking out onto Dartmoor and finding herself in the middle of a beautiful field of bluebells. We plan every year to go and visit them, we talk about it in January, muse on it in February, consider it in March and ponder it in April. Then, suddenly, each year, it is July and we realise that there is no chance of catching the bluebells until the next season.
This year I have been on determined bluebell watch – there are loads of them up in our copse. I went up a couple of days ago and sure enough, there were hints of blue coming up between the swathes of Spring green. I went home excitedly to make contact with Blonde One – I had to use the wonders of modern technology for this as our powers of telepathy are still a bit weak (you wouldn’t believe that sometimes). We decided to get together the next day and arrange a date for our bluebell visit.
And it was then that we realised – there is a very good reason why we don’t make it to the Dartmoor bluebells each year. They are yet another thing that arrives around the same time as Ten Tors. I have calculated that, with the flower time delay that operates between South Devon beach land and Dartmoor, the optimum time for bluebell visitation would be next Friday.
There is no way on earth that the Two Blondes would be anywhere but Okehampton army camp with 2000 excited youngsters on the second Friday in May (I do, however, have a lot of guilt about Mr B2’s birthday which is also that day). A broken ankle kept me away one year but a field of even the giantest, bluest bluebells wouldn’t cut the persuasive mustard.
We are planning a trip up the following week and will let you know whether we find ourselves in fields of blue or a sea of empty stems.