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/home/wpcom/public_html/wp-content/blogs.dir/813/46462826/files/2014/12/img_0395.jpg I think I’ve got it pretty bad. I used to have it under control, but some days it’s pretty much all I can think about.

I’m talking about my lunchtime walk in the Botanic Gardens. Give me a sunny day, and woe betide anyone who tries to keep me in the office over lunchtime.

Today was particularly good. I took my new coat for a walk. There is a real child-like pleasure in wearing a new coat for the first time, on a sunny day, in such a beautiful garden.

I have to take my pleasures when I can. Julie is in and out of hospital. I need my walks in the sunshine more than ever.

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If you keep doing the same thing over and over again, it’s easy to go a bit on automatic, even if it’s something glorious. So sometimes when I go on my lunchtime walk round the Botanic Gardens I try experiencing it in a different way. Like taking my ears for a walk.

Trees have very distinctive sounds. The poplar trees at the entrance gate of the Botanic Gardens make this incredible sparkling rushing sound, like the sea. It can be heard hundreds of yards away and close to it is almost deafening. Why does no one else notice them shouting? There are other trees in the garden that are almost completely silent: the majestic sequoias seem severely mute even in the highest wind. Horse chestnuts are another mute surprise, but they are all sick with the leaf miner. Beeches and hornbeams both make pleasant murmuring sounds, and tucked away in another corner of the garden I find a catalpa tree sweetly rustling. Bamboos of course make a soundscape all of their own, whispering, squeaking and mysteriously knocking.

It is a tactile time of year too, full of fruits and seed heads that are knobbly, spiked, furry. I touch them surreptitiously (is one allowed to touch the plants?). I find one flower whose seed heads are like tiny velvet purses.

Scent, not so much, except some of the more exotic limes whose sweet scented flowers still linger, and the hot spicy scents of the herb border. The tropical glasshouses are another matter: still a riot of sweet and earthy smells as everything competes for space and attention.

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