A borage plant flowers again in the garden

I’ve pondered what to post on this ninth ‘Blip birthday'. It is a rather academic or token anniversary as I’m so far behind being a daily blipper, since my first post in late summer in 2010. I can still remember taking that picture, which does reinforce the important idea of posting a memorable image. I still think of, and want to thank profusely, the creator  of Blipfoto, Joe Tree, wherever he is. Someone told me he is alive, living and working around Edinburgh.

Today is memorable as the first rains have arrived, a harbinger of the first big storm of autumn to reach us in southern England forecast to simultaneously drench and blow us about later today. That is a shame as Helena and I are going to a celebration gathering at teatime in memory of her great friend Gail Snyman, who sadly died very suddenly recently.

I might have been able to catch the heron that flew right over our house early this morning, whilst I lay in bed sipping tea. Perhaps I should have recorded the moment the ambulance arrived to help the prone body of a rather derelict elderly man who lives nearby, whom Helena found on her walk to town this morning. He was lying in a heap on the narrow road, near the allotments, and stayed that way until the ambulance arrived, reasonably quickly I’m pleased to say. That would not have been an appropriate image, even though it was memorable. I’d responded to Helena’s phone call to help her whilst waiting. He is lucky that she found him. The ambulance phone service stayed on the line till the ambulance driver arrived asking us to count his breath and tell them every time he inhaled, which was hard to tell. What a great service we have, which we must treasure.

When I returned home mid-morning I made some breakfast but before I ate any I took the vegetable remains  out to the compost in the garden as I expected the rain to arrive imminently. As I walked back up the garden towards the house I saw a tiny dash of blue colour in a tiny plant growing amongst the resurgent green of the grass and herbs on what is no longer a lawn. The summer heat and drought brought the garden to its knees but as expected the grass has recovered, as have weeds and herbs.

I knew that the blue flower was a borage plant which wanders around the garden after being self seeded over the years. There was a large borage plant in the early summer but I feared it had disappeared during a period of garden trimming. I found my camera indoors, changed the lens and returned to the garden a little later, by which the rain was getting harder. I knelt down and took a few quick pictures knowing this was a moment to show the power of nature to regrow and provide beauty. A suitably memorable image for me on my blip anniversary day. 

Thank you to those fellow blippers who still bother to visit and who can say hello, offer support and tell stories here. I do appreciate it despite my rather poor support of them and their fine offerings. I still like blip meets if any one thinks they may come near us. Good will to all Blippers near and far.

I rather like the prospects that John Gerard’s Herball suggests from using Borage as a herb. See the Wiki entry below

From Wiki:
Francis Bacon thought that borage had "an excellent spirit to repress the fuliginous vapour of dusky melancholie".

John Gerard's Herball mentions an old verse concerning the plant: "Ego Borago, Gaudia semper ago (I, Borage, bring always joys)". 
He asserts:
Those of our time do use the flowers in salads to exhilarate and make the mind glad. There be also many things made of these used everywhere for the comfort of the heart, for the driving away of sorrow and increasing the joy of the mind. The leaves and flowers of Borage put into wine make men and women glad and merry and drive away all sadness, dullness and melancholy, as Dioscorides and Pliny affirm. Syrup made of the flowers of Borage comfort the heart, purge melancholy and quiet the frantic and lunatic person. The leaves eaten raw engender good blood, especially in those that have been lately sick.