My heart sings when I see a line of washing, pegged out and blowing in the breeze: it’s a timeless, homely and oddly cheering sight. I love the way that the light shines through the translucent fabrics, and I revel in the gloriously fresh, unmistakable line-dried scent. Hanging washing on a line has always been an everyday pleasure for me. In the case of this particular washing line, perched atop the Cotswold hills, it’s the idea of a laundry line with a view that I love so much. I’ve driven past this spot a number of times, and today, as the colours glowed in the setting sun, I persuaded my long-suffering husband to stop the car so that I could jump out and snap a quick picture on my phone. Such a common domestic scene: the washing, the pegs, the basket. I see beauty in its simplicity.
What could be more spring-like than a line of washing, flapping as it dries in the sunshine? I am almost ashamed to admit it, but after many years of washing lines, our current garden has only a rotary dryer (the horror!) This year, however, I am declaring enough to be enough and I am determined to put up a line of my own.
I make no secret of it. I have a long-standing love affair with laundry lines.