I walk often along a tree lined path to get to town which, until the early 1960s was home to a terrace of pretty rough Victorian terraced houses. Eventually they were condemned and pulled down. The only sign that this terrace was ever there is this vibrant pink rose, which flowers madly every year until mildew gets hold of it. It could have been in someone’s front garden and was probably loved.
It’s always a spectacular pink splash and a sign of high summer.

Happy Friday dear blippers. Thank you for your stars and kind comments, I really appreciate it. I’m slowly catching up with your journals, it’s always lovely to see what you’ve all been up to.