When we moved here we were knee deep in darkness, the depths of winter had set in and our eyes accustomed to the long drawn out nights.
The garden appeared barren, dormant and desolate. All the tress stood still with twisted branches that looked like veins silhouetting the bleak landscape. But we had trees on our small patch of earth and for me that was all I needed to get me through to spring.
Our garden is situated on a hill. Like most are in our little village. I literally begged the estate agents to find us some outdoor space on the flat, but to no avail. They just don't exist on these hills. So the hilly part of the garden rarely sees a mower, which suits me just fine. Long grass and buttercups grow by the masses in these patches so we've started to fondly call it 'the meadow'.
It never ceases to amaze me, the feat of engineering and the great enormity of effort that goes into the construction of such magnificent architectural structures. Especially when you can get up really close and blow your mind at the grand scale of it all. Wondering how such impressive building works could ever be achieved.