Yep, March, just isn’t doing it. It teases so much promise. You think you’re nearly there. Just as it feels within your grasp, it steals a march on you and whisks your hopes away. Years ago, we were heading down to Southern France, it was a one day bash, no stopping just keep going, km after km, aire after aire flashing by. As we neared Brive-La-Gaillarde, I asked Becky how near we were and she said under an hour. That mean’t, 50ish mins, easy, home straight. Come on. We carried on and a bit later I saw a sign saying ‘Pau 367 Km’.
‘Umm, What? I thought you said under an hour? That's more like 3 hours!’
I was hungry. It felt like being shown mother's Spaghetti Bolognese, with bountiful parmesan, put under your nose. Spoon and fork ready to go in, then it’s taken away, like a rug, swept from beneath you.
Yep, that’s what March is. Damn you March. Damn you for the sodden bog in every gateway across the farm. Damn you for the pinched lambs shivering in the downfall. Damn you for making February’s daffodils look sad. Day after day, cloud, rain, cloud, rain, occasional sunlight to remind us what we should be getting, one day.
If we’re lucky.
February. October; Come on lads. Have a word.
