There is something very soothing about tiny traditions. In the winter time, they’re the little landmarks that help us navigate our way through the grey days, reassuring us that we will once again make it out into the springtime beyond. For our family, one such tradition is Snowdrop Sunday. On a bright Sunday, in mid February, we package up some Bakewell Hearts leftover from Valentine’s Day (baking these is a tradition in itself), and we head to a hidden valley to see the snowdrops in the Rococo Garden.
You can see my endless snowdrop pictures on the posts from last year, and the year before that. This year, although I adored the flowers, my sunshine-starved eye was drawn to a tiny detail: the liquid light that streamed through the stained glass windows in the folly at the top of the hill. The colours swam across the wall, and danced across the stone floor, and on a cold February Sunday, the magic of it made my heart sing.