I readily admit I overreact about minutiae and nuance (which is bizarre for someone as sledgehammery unsubtle as I am), particularly where seasons are concerned. The second the leaves turned in Autumn was nothing short of the best ever, and reading my impressions on even the slightest dusting of snow would make you think nobody had ever seen the substance before. I am delighted to confirm that spring is no different, and of course amazing. God help us all come the first hint of summer.
To be fair, I spend a lot of my time walking around our neighbourhood, along the lake and through the woods (and to a certain slippery-dip that a certain someone is obsessed with sliding down) and as such the smallest changes are noticeable, interesting. The daffodils and freesias have come and gone, more gloriously and swiftly than I had thought possible. For weeks now the buds on the trees have been swollen, almost pulsating, about to burst. On these walks, out of the corner of my eye, I see a new and surprising flash of colour almost at every turn.
The changes in the landscape are echoed by changes in our habits. The city is coming alive. People are out and about everywhere: walking, picnicking, rowing, playing Viking Chess (a Scandinavian game with wooden pegs that involves underarm throwing and a King, the rules of which we are yet to comprehend), cycling and playing frisbee (which I pretended to love when Hotel and I first got together, to win him over you understand. I’ve not played it since…well, roughly since we moved in together. Game set and match, Motsy). Luckily our little Laides is happy to indulge her dad’s best park sport.
The last few weekends we’ve spent at home, hanging out by the ‘beach’ (as much as I try I simply cannot remove those inverted commas. It’s beautiful – stunning, actually – but it just ain’t a beach) and embracing the warmer weather, the little miss working on her stepping technique while I gushed about spring springing.
Parallel to this – or more accurately in concert – it feels as if we’re springing roots of our own. The last few weeks have held drinks and lunches with new friends, casual run-ins with acquaintances that have merged into long afternoons sprawled on picnic rugs, and many games of ‘do you like my hat?’ (the answer is yes, Juergen, of course we do).
Our sometimes seemingly endless walks have shown us many things: new friends, new blooms and – as much as I don’t like to encourage evil birds from multiplying – new life.
We live around the corner from the Wagner Museum – it’s a short steep walk up a nearby hill to the Villa Tribschen, where Wagner lived for a spell and completed several significant works. His life was allegedly characterised by turbulent love affairs, political exile, poverty and repeated flight from his creditors, some of which was spent in Luzern (ah, neutral Switzerland). Although there are many dubious Nazi associations, I’ve not actually been to the museum and I’m not sure how mutual they were (Hitler used a lot of Wagner’s music for his campaigns, but given Wagner’s financial situation there is some speculation as to his motives and intentions), and as such I’m unqualified to speculate.
I am, however, qualified to be completely jealous of Wagner’s digs and view. Rumour has it that his summer terrace becomes a cafe in…uh…summer. I eagerly, and most likely over-enthusastically, await the rosé I intend to sip there while my little one frolics on his lawns.