I love a hydrangea. (Notice I didn’t say ‘an hydrangea’ which would have been silly.) It’s so lusty and ripe, so abundant. I love that the blossoms turn color, depending on the acidity of the soil. (Or some do, in any case.)

I love the name–it sounds like an island or a neurological condition, an exotic ingredient in a love potion.

I saw this one on the Bridge of Flowers, an old trolly bridge connecting the towns of Shelburne Falls and Buckland that was converted into a pedestrian walkway by the local Women’s Club in 1929. Money was raised, truckloads of loam brought in, and then filled with flowers, shrubs, vines and small trees that now bloom from spring to fall.

It’s a spectacular sight, this bridge, peaceful and colorful and inspiring.  It makes me want to be a better gardener. (Well, that’s not hard, but still.)

Flowers are spectacular, aren’t they?

One thought on “Hydrangea

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