Beauty

I love the English countryside. Low, undulating hills punctuated by copses and spinneys; newly ploughed fields as rich and enticing as fruit cake; spaniels barking; horses clip-clopping along bridleways; real beer in real pubs. These things make me go all John-Majorish and mushy. But what I really, really hate about the English countryside is electricity pylons. Why, oh why, did the politicians in charge at the time decide that it was OK to defile virtually every decent view in the land with these monstrous bearers of he National Grid? Why couldn't they have buried the cables instead? Why? Why? Why?

When Corinne and I were looking for a property to buy near Bath, she quickly learned that a pylon in the view meant a veto from me. Apparently others can filter pylons from their mental representation of the scenery but I can't. To me they leap out and make me wish I had access to a lot of TNT until I look deliberately somewhere else.

Last week some hard working men from Yorkshire arrived to construct a new polytunnel that I had ordered to protect a valuable collection of peonies that I have recently acquired (more of which in another post). To me it is a thing of beauty. I cannot imagine how anyone could look upon it and feel anything other than love. But I have discovered that one man's polytunnel is another man's pylon. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder but, as Miss Piggy has noted, it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye.