It’s been a while since I last posted anything to this very occasional blog and at the moment my world is defined by a perfect blue sky, exotic trees and a Victorian veranda where my cup of Earl Grey rests beside my sofa. There’s just the perfect amount of cool breeze and my only care is whether I’ve downloaded enough novels to my iPad.
All of which should indicate that I’m not in Ireland. Instead I’m a month into a holiday in India and my veranda is in India’s blue mountains, the Nilgiri Hills, where once the English fled from the summer heat on the plains and now the rich of modern India do likewise. We’ve turned and twisted up the winding road where the hair pins are so frequent and so extreme that even Indian drivers go slowly and carefully, looking across green gulfs to the shadows of waterfalls, almost dry at this season, and especially so since the southern monsoon has failed two years in a row. Nonetheless the hills are covered with lush growth, much of it in bloom at this season. Many of the flowers are foreign invaders from Australia, central and north America, China, Indonesia and Europe but it is hard to grudge them their space when they are in full bloom.