Here goes, my tentative toe-dipping into the mysterious world of blogging. I am a forty something mental health nurse living a semi-reclusive but contented life in Snowdonia with my long suffering husband Mr P. As with most things in my life, I have come somewhat late to blogging and am not entirely sure that I have grasped the concept in its entirety.However, rather than admitting to being a tardy creature perhaps I should just say that I have chosen to take the scenic route through life, stumbling on occasions but stopping to drink in the view along the way. I love poetry, nature, nostalgia and day dreaming and I loathe ugliness in whatever form it may choose to take.
The nickname “Bluebell” came to me many years ago for rather juvenile reasons but, as the years have slipped not so quietly by, it has stubbornly refused to relinquish its hold on me. It has long been reported that bluebells are the symbol of humility, constancy, gratitude and everlasting love, so I have finally chosen to embrace their presence in my life and decided that they are not bad little flowers after all.
Why have I chosen to write this blog? Well I guess, like many people, I have always had a sense that there is an unwritten novel welling up inside me. I have intermittently pondered various themes for such a novel but have never found anything inspiring in the murky depths of my my little rusty brain. Looking back over the last 47 years and, even beyond into my family history, I have come to realise that the best stories are not the ones with ingenious plots but the simple stories that tell the tale of our own little lives: the journeys we take, the roads we choose, the landscapes we encounter, the people we meet and the lessons they teach us. Above all, what has intrigued and inspired me most is the determination and resilience I have witnessed in others and the enduring strength of the human spirit. I figure the only story I have that is worth telling is my own. I write this story primarily for myself. I hope it will capture something of my little life and, as my memory starts to fade, perhaps I will be able to look back and smile at my ramblings.
Five years ago I met a man who took my hand, and chose to accompany me on my journey. At the time the road I was travelling was a little treacherous but he was a determined soul. I now share my life and a little cottage with this man and our garden is, by chance, full of bluebells. Those little flowers with a delicate scent that persist in poking their heads through the soil every Spring.