Only time I'd been to Bromborough in my entire life had been a geology field trip to examine an exemplary demonstration of faulting in sandstone, but now I'm around its industrial estates on a fairly regular basis... what's going around coming around.
But what bluebells remind me of is flying downwind legs out of Redhill aerodrome in Surrey. It takes you along a wooded escarpment and if you looked down out of the right hand side from eight hundred feet, it was tinged in electric blue in view of all of these flowers there.
Later the same with poppies instructing out of Bournemouth in Dorset, cornfields stained blood-red like those once home to trenches in northern France instead.
Later again operating shuttles between Heathrow and Edinburgh in springtime, when the gorse illuminated the Pentland Hills in a vibrant yellow.
But nothing quite beat tulip fields in Amsterdam, where I told those lucky enough to have a window seat to look at as magnificent a floral display as they would see from the air anywhere; was said my captain at the time, likely the gayest PA they'd ever listened to.
For looking back flying gave me ample time to look out of the window, a free copy of the Times to hand and a fried breakfast on my lap brought to me by a young lady with ample embonpoint.
But our lives still have gentler compensations like the bluebells, don't they Gromit?
