The Bluebell Woods, Edinburgh

One of my favourite things about Edinburgh is its sheer variety: all the mod cons, coffee spots and speciality shops you could ever hope for in a city, but with a rich range of natural environments too – from the sands of Portobello to the foothills of the Pentlands. At this time of year as Spring comes into full bloom, I crave some peace from the daily hustle and bustle – and luckily for me, in Edinburgh you don’t even have to go that far to find it. Last weekend that’s exactly what we did: hopped on the number 41 bus and in less than half an hour we were making our way into the depths of Ravelston Woods on a bluebell-hunting adventure.

In Scotland the bluebells are just beginning to emerge, but they still put on quite the show for us. With branches bursting with blossom, violet flowers dappled with Spring sunlight carpeting the forest floor and the scent of wild garlic all around, it was hard to believe we were still in the city. We wandered for a couple of happy hours, stopping for snaps and to drink our flask of tea perched on the trunk of a fallen tree. It was the most perfectly restorative Saturday morning I’ve had in a long time: getting back to nature really is good for the soul. I leave you with the words of Emily Brontë about the cycle of the seasons and transience of nature; she and these pictures say it better than I ever could.

The Bluebell

The Bluebell is the sweetest flower
That waves in summer air:
Its blossoms have the mightiest power
To soothe my spirit’s care.

There is a spell in purple heath
Too wildly, sadly dear;
The violet has a fragrant breath,
But fragrance will not cheer, 

The trees are bare, the sun is cold,
And seldom, seldom seen;
The heavens have lost their zone of gold,
And earth her robe of green.

The Bluebell cannot charm me now,
The heath has lost its bloom;
The violets in the glen below,
They yield no sweet perfume.

But, though I mourn the sweet Bluebell,
‘Tis better far away;
I know how fast my tears would swell
To see it smile to-day.

And ice upon the glancing stream
Has cast its sombre shade;
And distant hills and valleys seem
In frozen mist arrayed.

For, oh! when chill the sunbeams fall
Adown that dreary sky,
And gild yon dank and darkened wall
With transient brilliancy;

How do I weep, how do I pine
For the time of flowers to come,
And turn me from that fading shine,
To mourn the fields of home!

Have you found the bluebells where you live? How do you get back to nature?