“Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like?"...
"It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine...”
― Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
Spring happened this weekend.
Britannia seems to be raising her face up to the sky, shaking the rain out of her hair, and laughing.
Every public park is sprinkled with crowds of people, who have popped up on the lawns like flowers, and flowers, which have popped up in the landscaping beds like crowds of people. There is sunshine above and there are daffodils below.
Saturday, I had every intention of taking a walk in the country with a local tour guide. My Saturday morning brain being what it is, I got on the wrong train. Three times. So I gave up and went to play in Portobello Road instead. Then, upon my arrival home, I was swept into a group doing the best thing that could possibly be done on a sunny Saturday in springtime: renting paddleboats on the Serpentine in Hyde Park.
Sunday involved a bit of semi-deliberate getting lost, just to be out in the sunshine some more.
And today, Monday, we launched our week-long North trip.
Today, we visited the Wedgwood Factory, where we saw craftspersons making beautiful pottery. As usual, I dove into the museum (which was very informative and contained a vast amount of beautiful ceramic everything), and as usual, everyone else magically disappeared. Dr. O. eventually came and fished me out, as we'd apparently decided to leave 1.5 hours earlier than planned.
I keep following the directions exactly re: where to be and when, and plans keep changing behind my back while I'm distracted by museums and/or forests. It has happened at Stonehenge, at Chawton House, at the British Museum, at Charles Dickens's house, and now at the Wedgwood factory. It's getting annoying. Also, why do people keep hunting for me when I have a phone and they know it? Sigh.
Anyway, I'm now watching QI XL, legally. No pictures today, as the internet is being iffy. But remind me to tell you all about Chawton House, about the Drowned Man, about teaching Byron, and about coffee-sipping guitar-strumming hippie church.
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