Over at the Jones Family Farms’ web site, I read that there’s a “sneak peek” of pick-your-own strawberries on Saturday morning, May 29th! Seems early to me, but I did see fresh strawberries from other local places at Westport’s farmers’ market this morning.
Jones Family Farms, in Shelton, is our favorite place to go strawberry-picking. We’ve paid a visit almost every year for the past nine years. Usually we end up with so many strawberries that we end up giving away a lot. It’s all fun.
Note: Other than being a longtime fan, I have no relationship with Jones Family Farms.
On a walk recently I noticed the first boats back in the water at the marina at Longshore Club Park. Alongside the small building at the marina was a Coke truck making a delivery for the soda machine there. With the golf course now open, traffic at Longshore had definitely picked up compared to my walks in the colder weather.
Longshore is celebrating its fiftieth anniversary as a town-owned park. If you’ve never read Barbara Probst Solomon’s article “Westport Wildlife,” which talks about Longshore and its possible relation to The Great Gatsby, I recommend tracking down a copy of the September 9th, 1996, issue of The New Yorker. (The article is available online only to subscribers.)
Japanese magnolias, dandelions, and daffodils are all early-spring bloomers. I wish the daffodils especially lasted all through the summer.
I took these pictures at the Haskins Preserve, sixteen acres of open space right in the heart of a Westport neighborhood. (Click on any photo to enlarge it. ) Owned by the Asptetuck Land Trust, the preserve features well-marked trails, benches to sit on, two small ponds, and a couple of rippling brooks. A number of the trees are labelled.
A couple with their dogs were enjoying the preserve, too. Some workers were also cleaning up from the storm a few weeks back. I’d hoped to see some birds and brought my binoculars. I guess I was a little late in the day, though.
Others have different ideas of what to do with open space. A car stopped on the street, and a teenage boy emerged and tossed a lunch bag into one of the ponds. Ten boys, armed with pellet (?) guns and assembled at the entrance gate, were dividing themselves into teams. “What are you doing?” I asked, curious. “”Just hanging out,” one of them said. A sign at the entrance says No Paintball Games.