England may deserve its reputation for dreary weather, but it makes up for dismal winters with its slow-dawning, always charming, long-lasting spring.
The first blooms emerged this year in January (January!): dainty drooping snowdrops, too shy to raise their heads. Vibrant crocus followed, in pools of purples and pinks.
Then daffodils took the city by storm.
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Today commenced a new venture into continental Europe, the next phase in my ambitions to soak in the Alps. Farewelling friends in Rome, I braced myself for an overnight bus ride spanning three separate legs and twenty hours of travel time. If I wanted to save on my voyage to one of Europe’s most diminutive nations, I would undergo the punishment at the outset of the trip, then rest myself in the mountains.
Once Friday morning dawned, the winding bus ride graced us with spectacular views of the peaks, most white-capped and gleaming with the chill indigo unique to alpine atmospherics.
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I hadn’t realized how dark it had become until Easter brought the light. Everything came together to lift my spirits: the weather brightened; the government restrictions eased; people began to gather again for Holy Week.
