A brief change in environment is always interesting. It's nothing short of fun to return to places one visits on occasion that have good memories behind them. And then to embark on yet another small adventure of re-acquainting oneself with a landscape that is truly remarkable. It's why we return year after year to the Waterville Valley in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. We're no longer capable of climbing the steep mountains we once took pleasure in ascending with our children when they were teens. Since they're now all in the fifties, that is quite some time ago.

While we were in New Hampshire on our week away from home we also celebrated our 60th wedding anniversary. And managed, despite the gradual diminishing of our energy output and stamina to mount a few relatively modest trails leading to impressive lookouts.

But when the week was over, we were more than prepared to return home. We couldn't possibly ask for more sweet kindness from our hosts of the past decade and more. They're the dearest of people imaginable, and it is always a distinct pleasure to greet them again and renew that appreciated acquaintance we have built over the years. It's always like that; we enjoy a week away and then after having re-visited some of the favourite trails we're still able to traverse, we yearn to return home. And so, yesterday we did just that.

Even on the highways, seeing the grassy mediums bright with lupine and daisies, there's pleasure, let alone viewing the passing grandeur of the mountain summits with their aeries deep in enveloping cloud. And we acknowledge those peaks, as we pass, that we had once ascended and found huge pleasure on doing so.

But back home we are once again. And it never fails, the thrill of arriving back home after a week apart from the place we're most comfortable with. An inspection of the gardens, however brief, is mandatory to bring ourselves up to what we might have missed in that time away. Sure enough, the peonies are well on their way, the rhododendrons are beginning to fade, the roses are halfway to splendour, the irises are almost spent, and the lilies are coming into their own.

And when we step into the house, it all looks so oddly 'new', in the sense that everything sparkles and presents in the best possible perspective. Those transitory times away are very much anticipated, but returning home is yet another reward when we view our surroundings with a refurbished attitude of pride and belonging.

We have experienced, and continue to have on a daily basis an extraordinary amount of rainfall. No complaints, the gardens seem happy enough, and so should we be, since farmers' fields with growing crops will also welcome the rain. There are enough periods in between for some level of absorption and evaporation and it can count as compensation for our having had less rainfall and snow than usual from last fall into the winter months.

After a rain everything seems to glow. And grow exponentially as well. It is nothing short of amazing how healthy plants are advantaged by copious rain at this time of year when the drying wind which often accompanies the rain, and the appearance of the sun at regular intervals produce the perfect circumstances for the flora that surrounds us.

If a petal is beautiful in appearance because of its colour and texture and form, it becomes all the more so when it is glistening with rain, and when droplets of rain appear like jewels, glittering in the shaded light.

It is as times like this, soon after a considerable rainfall that the garden beckons, eager to show off its glorious presence and we respond with the admiration that it all deserves. Nature's faultless architecture and seasonal mysteries continue to enthrall us and always will, while it also offers us sustenance, prolonging our existence in a wonderfully interconnected world of flora and fauna -- and ourselves.

How the Internet connects us is astonishing. Who might have imagined such a communication tools just a few decades ago, when trans-Atlantic telephone calls were the sole medium aside from sending postcards to bring family and friends up to date on foreign travel episodes?

Two weeks ago our youngest son embarked from Vancouver to Spain to attend a conference where he would also be delivering a lecture/presentation. He arrived a few days before the start of the conference to do a little bit of exploration in the area on his own, though it isn't the first time he has travelled to Spain. He was there a few years ago, and remained after another conference, for a number of weeks, travelling, hiking in the mountains, visiting world-famous spots of antiquity.

Now he's back, and he'll be there this time for a month. The conference itself took up an entire week. It represented an opportunity to become re-acquainted with international colleagues, to be exposed to interesting scientific findings, to enjoy another attractive geographic site in the company of those whose life work as professional scientists bring them together regularly to share findings.

His own work as a biologist specializing in freshwater ecology has taken him to various parts of the world in the past, and while there on professional occasions, occasionally to sit on doctoral committees as well as attending conferences, he has always taken additional time to better inform himself of those areas of the world whose heritage, culture and societies are in many ways different from those he is most familiar with.

Girona, Pyrenees

I used to walk often from Fuyo Compound over to the Palm Arcade, it was one of my favourite shopping places. In late 1986 or early 1987 I recall seeing a little outfit that really appealed to me for its practical value, a light-weight cotton hooded jacket and matching pants. It wasn't actually right in the arcade, but outside, where occasional vendors set up shop. I bought the outfit and still have it, and at this time of year it comes in very handy. I wear it in the ravine on summer days to help fend off the swarms of mosquitoes that make directly for us, and it helps.

It's useful also because on a day like yesterday, hot and humid with thunderclouds moving swiftly overhead, I was able to cram light raincoats for Jack and Jill into one of the pockets, and my camera in the other. My husband prefers to brave out the mosquitoes, they do go for him but not quite as much as using me as a moving target.

But he also brought along guards against the rain that we were sure was imminent, viewing the darkly bruised sky. Into one of his back jeans pockets two very small umbrellas fit quite nicely.

As luck had it, the minute we turned into our driveway after our long ravine ramble, when we heard thunder rumbling above and off to the side from time to time, the rain began, and we had escaped an inundation.

While we were in the ravine though, we could see manifestations of flora encouraged by all the rain we've been treated to over the last little while. Including yesterday, since once the rain started it kept coming through the area in waves, one after another, drenching rain events that can only be good for all growing things.

We saw in the ravine a plenitude of fancifully beautiful fungi. We saw that the raspberry canes which are ubiquitous, are now in full flower. And we saw the first of the buttercups of the season. We also saw that the milkweed which we noticed last year in that landscape for the first time, has returned and begun to colonize a part of the area we regularly pass by, and no doubt the butterflies will love that. We have seen a few yellow swallowtails here and there, but it's the Monarchs that really require milkweed to flourish.

Cowvetch

We also saw another new floral offering in our area, which we began to see last year, and which have returned in greater numbers; flowering ajuga. Cowvetch has been stretching itself on the forest floor growing up anything that will support its twining habit, and is now beginning to flower.

bunchberry, ground dogwood

And we saw the first of the bunchberries in flower, so things are really moving along swiftly in nature's many preserves. False Solomon's Seal is now fully flowering; everywhere we look there is something new to note and admire.

Even Jack and Jill are fascinated by the odours and appeal of new green things breaking constantly through the surface of the soil.

We've seen a succession of arborists come and go next door having been called in for consultations and information respecting the cost of removal of mature trees from the front and back of our near neighbours' property.

When these houses that are now 25 years old were built, the municipality had an agreement with the builder that on each property an approved tree species would be planted to ensure some kind of uniformity with respect to quality of life, with the atmosphere-scrubbing capabilities of mature trees giving us cleaner air to breathe, shade in the summer, winter protection against wind hitting the houses, and snow buildup. And of course there is the aesthetic value of seeing mature trees on lawns in front of houses.

People had a choice of approved trees, and the builder had them planted when the construction was completed. Our house was built as an experimental model three years later, the lot left vacant for that purpose. So when we moved in others had been in residence on the street for three years before us. When we bought the house it wasn't yet fully completed, and we had a choice of various interior finishes. But not the tree that was planted; it was a pine. Since we love trees and evergreens express the natural bounty of Canada's forests, we were pleased.

Over the years it has grown mightily, and we've discovered just how messy a pine can be, incessantly throwing down needles, and in drought years sending its roots closer to the surface to look for water, both conditions inimical to good grass growth. We still appreciate that tree, nonetheless, and it has been incorporated into our garden plan very nicely.

Our neighbours had less luck with theirs, having lost a major limb during the great ice storm, and the tree seemed never to have fully recovered; it appears it is hollow, and there are great sections of it verging on complete extinction. As far as 'natural selection' is concerned, it wasn't favoured. That tree was evaluated as dispensable by need. And another tree planted too close beside it is a soft maple which, the arborists informed our neighbours, has already sent its roots over to the foundation of their house.

In their backyard, a large spruce that overhangs our backyard, planted much to close to the property line and which plagued us this spring with the detritus it rained down which Jack and Jill took to eating and tracking back with them into the house, is also scheduled for removal. Beside it, also too close, is a crabapple, a glory of a tree in spring, but a headache for clean-up chores the rest of the summer, according to our neighbour, and it will also be taken down.

It's always a shame to see trees removed, but it's also surprising the number of now-mature trees that people on this street have contracted to have removed for one reason or another. A costly deliberation, but one that presumably frees up space for gardens and lush lawns, although both are elusive on this street.

Across from us three houses in succession have large, mature ash trees dating to their original placement, and all of them have succumbed to the ash-borer devastation, as well as another directly across the street from those. Even though one of the residents shelled out big bucks to have his treated last year in the hope it could be saved.

Henry is a large-framed, open-faced former military officer with the Canadian Forces, a genial man by nature, and when his family lost their former companion, a Golden Retriever, he gave no thought to bringing another dog into the house. His wife thought otherwise and urged him to think about this time opting for a small dog, one whose size he could manage. And whose needs would keep Henry on the move.

And there was a year-old Chihuahua being advertised for adoption by the Gatineau Humane Society; a connection made in heaven for both Henry and for Taz. Taz has never forgotten his anger, hatred and fear of those who maltreated him and then summarily disposed of him. He is suspicious of everyone, his body becoming a solid muscle of angry resistance whenever he encounters anyone on his regular trail walk in the ravine with Henry.

He has known us for years, but his anger is unrelenting. It dissolves entirely when he looks up adoringly at Henry. Taz is as frantically energetic as Henry is a compressed ball of incessant pain, necessitating that he keep his movements to a minimum. He walks with the aid of a walking stick, but he is as robust as that little Tazmanian devil dancing at his side. He's there to protect Henry. Just in case anyone gets too close to his beloved. And when that happens all hell breaks loose.

Henry is long retired. When he was a teen he had a bout with Shingles, and it wasn't pleasant. He was diagnosed with psoriasis, so that hasn't been pleasant. For years he was bedevilled with a growing persistent incidence of pain so intense he could barely function physically. Test after test eluded diagnosis. Finally his condition was correctly diagnosed as a rare type of arthritis connected to his psoriasis. He now takes medication that makes his pain tolerable, enabling him to get out and about, so he no longer involuntarily muses whether living is worth his while.

That medication comes at a steep cost, and it's only one among many drugs that have been prescribed for him, to allow for some quality of life. It alone, administered by injection twice monthly costs close to two thousand dollars. It's why his wife is still working. Her job isn't a great one, her payday nothing to celebrate, not much of a retirement plan, but the drug benefit plan is great.

When he's older and reaches 65, he'll be able to take advantage of the provincial drug benefit formulary. By then Taz will also be older, but it's unlikely that he'll be more forgiving of anyone who approaches too close to his best friend.

Drenched foamflower colony; centre Heuchera, foreground New Guinea impatiens

Just as we were on the cusp of taking Jack and Jill out this dark and overcast morning for their first break after awakening, we heard the unmistakable patter of heavy rain breaking on the atmosphere. It was a sudden event; looking out the window a few minutes earlier there was no rain. That poses quite a conundrum. Puppies have an urgent need to relieve themselves as soon after waking from a long night's sleep as can be imagined. With a light rain event we just put rainjackets on them, and even though they detest the inconvenience of the rain, plus the rainjackets, it's a feasible effort.

Jillie hates walking on wet grass. How's that for a fastidious little prima donna? Jackie doesn't much care, like a typical male, but he does prefer not to get drenched, while at the same time not enjoying the discomfort of a plastic rainjacket over his meagre little form. But as luck had it, the rain was over in five minutes and out we went. The skies still heavy with rainclouds, and more quite dark ones beginning to float over the house, but a truce, for a moment.

As soon as we brought them back into the house the heavens opened again. This time more furiously, and for a much greater length of time. Time enough to prepare breakfast and have it in leisure. And once the rain stopped again out we went once again for a leisurely, if sodden walk about, peering at what had transpired in the gardens since the day before.

Columbine

I do so much appreciate the effect of a drenching rain on a garden's denizens. Foliage is decorated with bright silver pearls of raindrops, and their colour is intensified, far brighter, more translucent when wet. Petals of flowers with rain still damp on them accentuate form and beauty. The columbine are now beginning to bloom, along with the Siberian irises. I hardly notice the hanging petals of the bleeding hearts because there are so many of them, and they seem, sad to say, pedestrian; which can also be said for the prevalence of forget-me-nots scattered in the garden.

Ladies Mantle

The hostas show wonderfully well when they're patterned with raindrops, and so too do the Ladies Mantle, with its tendency to take over the garden, self-seeding wherever there's an inch of bare ground, entitling them to take a foot, busily crowding out everything else around, trying to reach maturity.