Latest news with #Wordsworthian
New Indian Express
3 days ago
- Climate
- New Indian Express
When a flat tyre took me closer to ‘Young India'
I wish to share a heart-warming incident my wife and I recently experienced. On May 25, we were returning to the city after dropping our son at the Kochi international airport. The IMD had warned of a stormy night. By 9pm, we were indeed witness to it — furious splashes of rain cascading down the windshield. In spite of the wipers' valiant effort, visibility on that busy stretch of the highway was reduced to mere yards. Though, as a youth, I had once harboured a Wordsworthian wish to stand and stare at nature's fury, that night I had but one singular wish: to support my co-passenger's understandable wariness of the treacherous thoroughfare. Suddenly, a flash, a thunder. But my experienced hands on the wheel realised — it was not thunder alone. Pulling over at a dark alley confirmed my fear: a flat tyre. As I broke the news to my better half, it brought back memories of a night years ago when, stranded in a similar alley (albeit without a storm), I had changed a flat tyre of our two-wheeler with both our children on board. But time weakens not only the body but the resolve too. The will to even lift the spare tyre seemed to have ebbed. Confronted with those old anxieties, what unfolded next felt like a vision I had long held for our country. A Tagorean dream of a young India. Without being overly dramatic, let me describe the event that followed. This occurred just a few yards from the Pullinchode signal junction in Aluva.
The Guardian
24-03-2025
- General
- The Guardian
Country diary: A Wordsworthian moment, golden and dancing
The warm weather and sunshine of the recent 'fool's spring' turned up the volume on the chattering sparrows in the yard and brought the first bees of the season out in search of nectar in the crocuses. A meadow on the far side of the road has dried out enough to tread across without sinking into mud. Yet I'm walking oddly, a sort of hop, skip, jump. Surely it's a crime to stand on an orchid? I am surrounded by little clusters of unremarkable-looking green leaves. They are bee orchids, and there are uncountable thousands in this field. Hidden underground, beneath each orchid, are two oval tubers that look just like testicles. These will fuel the development of the pink flowers later in spring, with their characteristic furry yellow and brown bee design. In the woodland, the ground is carpeted in fresh green. We're on the countdown to the lilac haze of bluebells. My brother has the task of planning a date for the farm's bluebell open day. I climb a Norfolk mountain through the trees. It's a surprisingly steep hill for the county, formed by glaciers. At the summit, I recall a path that used to exist down the other side and try to follow its old line, sliding my way through leaf litter. Behind a rogue laurel, a flash of yellow catches my eye. It's several clumps of daffodils, out of place in the woodland setting. Smaller than the standard daffs, yet bigger than the miniature narcissi I have in my garden, are these the real thing, I wonder: wild, native daffodils? Wordsworth's host of dancing, golden daffodils are not the flowers we see everywhere today, but the predecessor to those cultivated varieties. Wild daffodils are scarce today, lost with their habitat. I study the trumpet and the petals, looking for discrepancy in colour, and check the stems for a greyish tinge. I find neither and reluctantly realise they are probably some stray cultivated daffodils. I ping a message to Plantlife to check, and their expert agrees with me. So much for my Wordsworthian moment. I console myself with the bluebells and orchids yet to come. Under the Changing Skies: The Best of the Guardian's Country Diary, 2018-2024 is published by Guardian Faber; order at and get a 15% discount
