I think spring is coming late to England this year. I’ll be there soon, and I’m thinking there might still be snow in the ground. Or flooded spring rivers. Still, I’m hoping for tulips. They were spectacular a couple of years ago.
These were in the gardens of Ann Hathaway’s thatched-roof cottage near Stratford-on-Avon.
The tulips and daffodils were in bloom at Sudeley Castle in Winchcombe, where Richard III’s banqueting hall lies in picturesque ruins, sheltering a Tudor Knot Garden (planted much later, using Tudor designs).
Fruit trees blossomed overhead…
…and in St. Mary’s Church on the castle grounds, angels hovered over the Victorian tomb of Queen Catherine Parr, the last wife of King Henry VIII. (Her coffin was lost for a few centuries following the English Civil War, when the castle was “slighted” by Cromwell’s troops).
I was on the lookout for bluebells in all the woodsy places.
We should have been on the lookout for hidden springtime potholes too. This one caused not one but two flat tires on our rental car. Country roads are narrow, we’re driving on the “wrong side,” and sometimes we have to swerve.
Where I live in the mountains of Colorado, it’s still winter. The moose are finding tender branches to chomp, though.
In the dead of winter, I admired a painting by Fritz Syberg, from 1892. It’s called simply “Spring.”
Birds sing, rivers flow, and trees bud.
The young girl’s face is oddly melancholy. Or maybe she is just thoughtful.
Art should make us think. Travel makes us think too, about the past, about being present in the moment (even if the moment involves flat tires), and about the future. I’m anxious to be off again!