Since the allure of a thing multiplies in imitation, I've been considering where I'd live if the darling wish of my heart was granted.
In a tiny English town, where the roads are old enough to still be cobblestone, there's a stone cottage overgrown with ivy. A small sign, painted a pretty silver and angled becomingly, reads the name of the place-- some faint recollection of one of L.M. Montgomery's works. The garden that surrounds it is a delightfully old-fashioned one, grown over by Nature's whimsies and a gentle human presence. Climbing roses frame the shuttered windows in a perfumed bower of crimson and ivory, and hollyhocks, tall and splendid with tissue-thin blossoms, nod along the little picket fence. There's a small square of velvety lawn, trimmed every Thursday evening. Quaint lawn ornaments seem to grow rather than abruptly appear. An sundial whose shadows fall over a twist of wisteria, and a small bronze weathervane that occasionally points South.
The path that curls up to the front door is a shy one, slipping in between the birch trees like an elusive dryad. There's a door-knocker in the shape of some pretty handle-- no new-fangled doorbells for Camille. It is answered by a small woman whose eyes study the visitor thoughtfully. She seems to have slipped out of a Victorian picture book in her lace blouse and dark grey skirt, with her golden-brown hair shining in dainty twists and puffs at the nape of her neck. A sapphire ring beckons alluringly on her finger, but whether she's married, engaged, or just fond of the stone those quiet eyes don't reveal. A large mirror in a tarnished gilt frame hangs over the mahogany side table, portraying the elaborate curls of the hat and coat rack across from it. A few pairs of shoes are lined neatly beside the door, heavy brown boots and pretty slippers side by side.
A faintly floral scent clings to everything in the house, imbuing it with a feminine presence. The floors are all plain boards of wood, sanded and refinished until they reflect the the hostess's hair. Soft pastels and rich colours battle for triumph among the painted walls, and dear little cupboards that filled with pretty knick-knacks and photogaphs appear in nearly every room.
The rooms reflect a definite taste-- an appeal to charm rather than fashion, quiet elegance over pretensious decoration. The kitchen smells woodsy, and a small pot of stew and hot bread freshly buttered wait on the simple tablecloth. A weakness for china is evident in the cabinets-- thin, spiraling champagne flutes that only serve sparkling water sit proudly next to the sweet tea set that's served many a guest. A real cooky jar sits on the counter, filled (nearly) to the brim with chocolate chip desserts.
The doors to the rest of the rooms hang demurely open, waiting for the right guest to enter, rather like the heart of the woman before you. Her eyes turn questioningly to your face, and she waits. . .
In a tiny English town, where the roads are old enough to still be cobblestone, there's a stone cottage overgrown with ivy. A small sign, painted a pretty silver and angled becomingly, reads the name of the place-- some faint recollection of one of L.M. Montgomery's works. The garden that surrounds it is a delightfully old-fashioned one, grown over by Nature's whimsies and a gentle human presence. Climbing roses frame the shuttered windows in a perfumed bower of crimson and ivory, and hollyhocks, tall and splendid with tissue-thin blossoms, nod along the little picket fence. There's a small square of velvety lawn, trimmed every Thursday evening. Quaint lawn ornaments seem to grow rather than abruptly appear. An sundial whose shadows fall over a twist of wisteria, and a small bronze weathervane that occasionally points South.
The path that curls up to the front door is a shy one, slipping in between the birch trees like an elusive dryad. There's a door-knocker in the shape of some pretty handle-- no new-fangled doorbells for Camille. It is answered by a small woman whose eyes study the visitor thoughtfully. She seems to have slipped out of a Victorian picture book in her lace blouse and dark grey skirt, with her golden-brown hair shining in dainty twists and puffs at the nape of her neck. A sapphire ring beckons alluringly on her finger, but whether she's married, engaged, or just fond of the stone those quiet eyes don't reveal. A large mirror in a tarnished gilt frame hangs over the mahogany side table, portraying the elaborate curls of the hat and coat rack across from it. A few pairs of shoes are lined neatly beside the door, heavy brown boots and pretty slippers side by side.
A faintly floral scent clings to everything in the house, imbuing it with a feminine presence. The floors are all plain boards of wood, sanded and refinished until they reflect the the hostess's hair. Soft pastels and rich colours battle for triumph among the painted walls, and dear little cupboards that filled with pretty knick-knacks and photogaphs appear in nearly every room.
The rooms reflect a definite taste-- an appeal to charm rather than fashion, quiet elegance over pretensious decoration. The kitchen smells woodsy, and a small pot of stew and hot bread freshly buttered wait on the simple tablecloth. A weakness for china is evident in the cabinets-- thin, spiraling champagne flutes that only serve sparkling water sit proudly next to the sweet tea set that's served many a guest. A real cooky jar sits on the counter, filled (nearly) to the brim with chocolate chip desserts.
The doors to the rest of the rooms hang demurely open, waiting for the right guest to enter, rather like the heart of the woman before you. Her eyes turn questioningly to your face, and she waits. . .