Perhaps if I wish for spring enough than it might become a self-fulfilling prophesy. When I return to the UK, it’s always the daffodils and those lonely, solitary clouds.
An Ambleside Spring
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud, William Wordsworth, April, 1804
Springtime in Northern England is a time of inspired renewal. Lavender crocus and sun kissed daffodils peek from under moss-covered rocks and along the tufts of broken heather that interrupt the fells, crags, scars, hows and pastures of the Lake District. The weather is a fickle, undependable companion with four seasons visiting every day. The wind sweeps down from the northwest unfurling great banners of rain and swirling mist. Suddenly, a swath of cornflower blue appears and expands into a great chasm of sky bursting with unfiltered spring sun. The…
View original post 964 more words
