May in June

Unbroken sunshine this week has illuminated the full, final, glory of the hawthorn (may) blossom, richly cream-clotted along all the field boundaries. My impression that the flowers were especially fine this year was confirmed for me  by a friend who said she'd never seen it better in 30 years here.
This view, looking down on the floral hedgerows with the blue sea beyond,  was one reason for walking up to this elevation today. The other was to revisit the old farmstead, high on the hill, that appears in the extra image.

A few months ago I had an email from a man who had found my photograph of the place on the Geograph website. He contacted me because he wanted help to get in touch with the present owners. He explained that his mother  had been evacuated to this isolated and windswept smallholding in 1940, aged 12,  after her London home had been bombed,  and she had been looked after by the then occupant, a woman called May Reynolds. I was intrigued and  asked him if he could tell me about his mother's stay there.  This is what he wrote.
 
"Mum [Joan] used to talk about the happy  times she had learning about life on the smallholding. She became fond of looking after the lambs in the spring time and in helping feed the chickens.Joan also had a job to milk cows. She also had a pony that I understood took her to school and back.
May taught her crafts like sewing and knitting, cooking, drawing, and how to write, as well as some Welsh words.
These were new and wonderful experiences for she had not had this opportunity when at home in London since her mother had many children, and Joan was often left to care for her siblings. Sadly she missed some schooling and her academic skills were somewhat lacking so staying with May Reynolds opened up a new world of learning for her.
 We did visit [the farm] with mum about 20 years ago and she was thrilled to see the place, she explained they would make coal balls from damp coal dust that would be left to dry and then burnt [this was known as culm]. We also saw the tree she would swing from, it was still there! 
 From about 7 years until I reached 13 mum, dad and my sister would spend our summer holidays in a caravan in a field behind May's farm house. Those were among the happiest years of my childhood. On some summer evenings inside her home and over a plate of Welsh cakes and tea  Mother and 'aunt' May would reminisce about those years they had spent together. "


It's only now, reading his delightful email over again,  I'm reminded  that the kind lady who cared so well for young Joan was called May, just like the blossom all around her old home today. No tea and Welsh cakes now though, it's a holiday house.


(Although I don't have any photos of Joan on the farm I found this charming one of young evacuees feeding some pigs elsewhere in Pembs.)