In general, the French manage to live up to their national stereotype of a people with good taste. But there are lapses.
Someone affiliated with the retirement community across the street decided to chop down the poppies on the berm that protects the village from the architectural horror of the retirement pavilions (though I think the residents of the retirement community think the berm is to protect them from the road traffic). Because of course it’s prettier to see black plastic for keeping down weeds (didn’t work so well, did it?) than to see terrible, terrible red poppies that people actually stop and park to photograph.
On our side of the street, we love poppies. With all the rain, the weeds have grown ferociously. On Sunday, we took advantage of the sun and the soft ground to pull them out. We cleaned the area in front of our gate, careful not to bother the poppies.
We have a bit of a red theme going on. The roses are blooming like they’ve never done before. #rosesnofilter!
Don’t ask me names; I don’t know. The rose bushes were a wedding present from my co-workers. An excellent idea, better than a third toaster. Of course, my co-workers were uncommonly intelligent and I miss them terribly.
That big red rose shown alone could be smelled from three feet away. Heavenly.
And the poppy field behind our house just keeps getting redder.
Sorry for another poppy post so soon but it was provoked.