No Lovelier Spot
As usual, his dark eyes were hidden in the mist, but I could still sense him gazing down on me from his place so high above as I made my way along the path to the garden. The tallest of his kind, for years he had kept a benevolent watch on the divinely turreted manor nestled below him. Floating islands of cloud cast giant navy blue shadows on the grass; shadows that moved over the hunter green lawn like ball gowns waltzing in the wind. I followed their dance to the stone gate hidden amid the towering firs. Once behind the garden wall, cabbage leaves and dahlias painted tableaus in deep purple, while sun orange pumpkins sat serenely waiting to be turned into midnight fairytale coaches. The air smelled like holidays. Plump raindrops began to fall at my feet, those slow, wet drops that herald downpours, so I started back. Off in the distance, I could see the old stone tower of the great house, stately and mysterious, standing proudly impassive, with stories to tell but with no intention of doing so. The majestic lady, for whom an entire age was named, once wrote in her diary of this very place declaring, “I never saw a lovelier or more romantic spot”.
I would have been foolish to doubt her.
I pulled my hat brim lower, my pace quickened with the raindrops. I knew, inside that tower, wood fires were burning, my name was remembered and my tea was waiting.
For the first person to correctly guess this location, I shall be happy to send
an Easter Keepsake Box!
(Congratulations to Martha from Lines From Linderhof!!!
She was the first to guess correctly!)
As usual, his dark eyes were hidden in the mist, but I could still sense him gazing down on me from his place so high above as I made my way along the path to the garden. The tallest of his kind, for years he had kept a benevolent watch on the divinely turreted manor nestled below him. Floating islands of cloud cast giant navy blue shadows on the grass; shadows that moved over the hunter green lawn like ball gowns waltzing in the wind. I followed their dance to the stone gate hidden amid the towering firs. Once behind the garden wall, cabbage leaves and dahlias painted tableaus in deep purple, while sun orange pumpkins sat serenely waiting to be turned into midnight fairytale coaches. The air smelled like holidays. Plump raindrops began to fall at my feet, those slow, wet drops that herald downpours, so I started back. Off in the distance, I could see the old stone tower of the great house, stately and mysterious, standing proudly impassive, with stories to tell but with no intention of doing so. The majestic lady, for whom an entire age was named, once wrote in her diary of this very place declaring, “I never saw a lovelier or more romantic spot”.
I would have been foolish to doubt her.
I pulled my hat brim lower, my pace quickened with the raindrops. I knew, inside that tower, wood fires were burning, my name was remembered and my tea was waiting.
For the first person to correctly guess this location, I shall be happy to send
an Easter Keepsake Box!
(Congratulations to Martha from Lines From Linderhof!!!
She was the first to guess correctly!)
