I love Great Britain. I have for 5 years. Sometimes, I think people forget that. But I don't.
When I was 12 years old, my father decided to take our family to Great Britain. He flew us to London and we stayed in the huge city for a few days. We traveled around the remainder England for the first week, staying at bed and breakfasts, experiencing the huge, beautiful, touristy amusements the country had to offer; and we basked in the sublte warmth and comfort of the countryside and the people.
Then, we went to Wales. We stayed in Llanelli that sunday and went to the small ward there. Roughly 75 people attended that ward, and being new the young women's program, I went to the young women's meeting. There were only 4 girls there, not including myself. And I met a girl. She was the only Laurel there. She was so kind to me, talking to me and taking care of me. Making me feel so welcome. Even though I knew her for 2 hours, I hold her in the highest esteem. In the afterlife, I will see her again and hug her in graditude. Never have I visited a ward and felt so loved.
The next few days were spent driving around Wales. We went to countless castles (for Wales has the most castles per square foot than any other country) and I saw herds of sheep running around, wrapped in heavy coats of wool. They always watched us as we trekked up the hills to the castles, some would even follow us for a few steps. I took it into my head that I should like to chase these sheep and try to talk to them. In their native tongue, sheepish. There is a photo of me, running behind the herd as they flee (like sheep do). I am reminiscent of a sheep dog in that posture. I did give up on the running bit and tried my hand at "sheepish." And that got their fleecey attention. They were riveted in so much as to approach me. My bleating seemed to be pretty good! But I digress.
The castles there are all set into the emerald green hills. Almost always do they rest upon the top of a hill, the base of which has a forest growing and extending. Most of the castles had lost their floors, various walls, and were over grown with vines and grasses. Broken pieces of stone lay scattered in a beautifully tragic way. But the last one, was remarkably intact compared to the previous ones I had seen. It still had most of its walls, floors, and ceilings. True, one half of the place was nothing but an archway, a few crumbled corners, and a pair of huge sheep nestled against a boulder. But the other half... It was a lovely.
Two stairways on different sides of the structure, both leading to an upper room, which was most likely a study. The room possessed a large old carpet, a lovely wood table and windows with a breath taking view of the small town across the hills. One window had a view of the road. And if, when poking your head out into the cool air, you looked straight down, you could see a small Ewe, tucked into a discreet corner. I put my linguistics to good use once again and carried on a conversation. Yes, that lonely sheep respond to me. And when my family and I had to leave, walking down the dirt road to our hulking van, I saw that sheep emerge from her hidy-hole. She stood on the stone wall, which protected the corridor from the sheer drop off the cliff. She stood and watched me walk. And then, as if to call me back, she sent out a long bleat. And I, in turn, echoed her. This we did until she was nothing but a small white shine against the dark gray stone.
On our last day in Wales, we decided to visit a Fairy Glen. A Fairy Glen is not some advertised tourist trap. I cannot think of anything I saw in the whole country that was. A Fairy Glen appears to be nothing more than a wooden gate in a wooden fence. The fence, being only 3 feet in height and consisting of two rectangular beams per section, each section about 6 feet in length. Needless to say, a glimpse of the glen is not difficult to catch. So, you drop the required amount of money into a locked box and, on your honor, you go through the small rickety gate.
And, just the same as the view outside the gate implies, you are in a small field that has a small worn path winding through it. The grass is a lovely light shade of green, and it smells heavenly, for you can see small flowers poking up between grass blades. And you follow the path until it leads you into the woods. Yes, the view of the field was only a small portion of this glen wherein dwell fairies.
The wood is dark and rich in greens, browns and yellows. In fact, some green leaves are so dark in color, they appear blue. And the ground is dappled with sunlight, so the forest has the illusion of being a forest of glowing gems and precious things.
You follow the path, passing perfectly grown mushrooms, tiny ivy leaves, clover patches, and (as you go deeper) small petaled flowers. Pinks, yellows, blues, and whites, these flowers are tiny and innocent. They grow everywhere.
The trees are not thick and tall. They are slender, but strong. Some have almost black bark and dark green leaves, their branches extending out in an effort to cover as much ground from the sun as they can. And then there are trees with white bark and pale green leaves, with branches no thicker than a tetherball pole, the branches grow almost straight up or not out too far. It is as though the tree is trying to wrap itself up for a long rest.
The path leads you down to a small river. It is not a creek, nor a brook. It is a river. It tumbles over smooth blue stones. Stones that have fallen from the sheer rock wall across from you. It tumbles and bubbles over these stones and around a large boulder, whirling around the bends. And if you climb upon this boulder and look down the river, you can see the mist between the sheer walls. As the mist lightens, there is a large log that has fallen into the slim ravine. But it is too long and has become caught against the rocks. It is the only connection you can see between the two shadowy walls. And it is growing still. You can see the green. But then the mist thickens and the bridge is gone.
It is at this time you see the butterflies. The river is surrounded by butterflies. They are pearly white and fluttering like a whisper on the wind. They float around you, batting their angelic wings in soft motions.
It is entrancing.
You can see how a girl, who has known nothing but dusty deserts, red mountains of clay, and for a short while, the green of California, would fall in love with this country set in the land of her ancestors. Not only does my blood call for me to go, but my adventurous side calls. My romantic side. My artistic side. My soul yearns to return. It always has ever since that day. I have missed the green hills, the kind people, the comfort of the air and the language.
I miss it.
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