Cherry Blossom Days.

I've spent a birthday in Hamburg, with Hümmel figurines around my breakfast plate. I've spent a birthday in San Gimignano, where I had pistachio gelato in the rain.

I am a spring baby, and it just felt wrong.

So last week we ambled off to Ceres and overnighted in a

three-little-bears cottage on a cherry farm.

The doorways are like tiny keyholes and to avoid the champagne cork effect, a tall man had to enter sideways in a bit of a crouch.

Did I mention that it was cold?

Heater, electric blankets and a roaring fire.

Oxtail and polenta for supper.

We awoke side by side, tucked into our little bear beds. Presents to unwrap, cherry blossoms and the calls of the coots on the lake. The nearest mountain was covered in snow.

Every time I went out - bejacketed/gloved/hatted, I vowed to bring long johns next time. The weaver nests caught my eye - such beautifully woven things they are. I tried to catch the yellow birds in flight, but my fingertips grew numb.

On the road there and back the mountainsides were covered in lichens so thick you could barely see the rock. Water gushes and trickles. 

The nitidas are covered in huge waxen flowers, soos bruide...

Fields of long creamy throated arum lilies.

Fields of yellow, fields of purple.

Fields of soft velvety green.

And a lost aquatic traveller, helped across the road...