For those of us who welcomed the lovely St Brigid's Day we experienced this year, there was always the reservation that it wouldn't all be so bland until summer finally reached us. There was the usual mention of a foot of snow early in May 1943, when wartime censorship forbade publication of the phenomenon. But how exceptional was it for these islands? Continuing yesterday's look at the work of a few diarists, consider the entry for Sunday 11th May 1872 of the Reverend Francis Kilvert in Wiltshire: "This is the bitterest bleakest May I ever saw and I have seen some bad ones. May is usually the worst and coldest month in the year, but this beats them all and out-Herods Herod. A black bitter wind violent and piercing drove from the East with showers of snow. The mountains of Clyro Hill and Cusop Hill were quite with snow. The hawthorn bushes are white with May and snow at the same time." But there is consolation. Later that day he met Morrell, owner it seems, of a nearby estate, whose keeper was carrying a beautiful salmon of nine and a half pounds - the first of the year. Morrell invited the Reverend to dine "and we discussed part of the salmon which was delicious, a bottle of port, and some fine strawberries" (from the hothouses of the estate), "as well flavoured as if they had been ripened out of doors."
"Shrove Tuesday 13th February 1872. Dined at the Vicarage at 5.30 and 7 drove with the Venables and Crichton to the Rifle Volunteer Concert in the National Schoolroom at Hay. We had tickets for the first row, and in the third row I immediately espied Daisy and Charlotte. I had the good fortune to get a chat with Daisy before the seats were filled up and she was so nice and I was so happy .. . I had been hoping and thinking all day that I might meet her. But now the seats began to fill. Fanny Bevan her great and inseparable friend sat on one side of her and her father on the other. I sat in the row before them. Henry sang.
"Oh Daisy."
Yes, she gets one whole line to herself. Kilvert muses elsewhere as to why he keeps his journal, (it makes three full printed volumes), and decides it's because life is such a curious and wonderful thing that even such a humble and uneventful life as his may amuse and interest some who come after him. Y