The Globetrotter: Entrancing England


The views are beautiful.

What do you think of when you imagine your happy place?

Rolling hills. Dipping valleys. Winding rivers. Stone beaches. Patterned landscapes. Dark skies. Strong winds. Shadowed cities. Flowered walkways. Loud playgrounds. Museums. Artwork. Natural beauty.

Most people think of a beach. A pond. A lake. Sometimes they think of loved ones. Other times they imagine pets, hills, or valleys.

I think of England. It has always been somewhat of a dream to me; I was born in America to British parents. Though we visited the country frequently to see family, I never imagined it as a reality.

The towns are sprawling and the hills are high.

It seemed too perfect – the rainy weather I loved, the cities I admired, the landscape that fulfilled practically every want I had, the playgrounds in every town, the amazing life that seems to burst out of every crack in the street and space in the grass.

For an artist, it was all kinds of perfect. Photographers can take their cameras up high to capture the vast beauties around them; painters can take their palettes to sit on the sidewalk and paint flowers; architects can study the brick and wood designs left from centuries before; singers can embrace the cool air; and writers can draw from the true life that flows through the country.

It is a euphoric experience, really. To find a place that you see yourself in as clearly as one of your memories is the equivalent of finding a soulmate; perhaps it can be looked at as a different kind of soulmate, if you can bear to imagine.

The stars are bright in the night, and the summers never get too warm. The sun blazes light, and the snow never falls too often. The rain hails down, and the clouds never leave. The beauty stays through the years, and the forests never fail to grow.

It is pretty, more than anywhere I have ever been. It is somewhere I would like to stay, and somewhere that I see in my dreams.