Holm sweet holm

I'm not going to say a word about how ashamed I am for never blogging.

Going to do a decent post on what's been happenin' lately, but for now I just want to let on about my exciting news: I'm going to Stockholm! (You know, as in Stockholm Syndrome.) I know, I know, I'm doing my supermassive European romp in... well, July, but I couldn't wait that long and got my act together for the first week of June. Stockholm has kind of been my dream utopia since I learnt that Sweden, land of fika, is importing garbage from Eastern Europe as they need more to fuel their (relatively) clean energy source. Badarse. Also, it's hard to follow along with Elsa Billgren and Emma Sundh and not feel inspired.

Omg.

I'm a little beside myself, especially since I fee I've really earnt this. The adjustment to London hasn't been an easy one, nor is it resolving itself easily. But walking home from work through Trafalgar Square in golden hour, when everything was so neat and crisp and Georgian and grand, just feels so right. Even if the work is hard, even if self-motivation is tough. I'm feeling good.

Credit where credit is due.

 

The Party Tree

The park I went to on my birthday is a little too beautiful to resist.

Honestly, I doubt I'll ever see a tree that perfect again.



It was the perfect time of day, just as the sun was beginning to slide, and all the birds were hassling the blossoms and being tremendously noisy. The temperature was gorgeous -- just too warm for a cardigan -- and the wind was pushing the leaves together, making them rustle and sigh.

Not a particularly heavy post today. I had a lazy one, avoiding stag's head-related purchases (I've got to fall out of love with that motif), submitting the application for my working holiday programme in London, eating party leftovers and printing out 207 copies of my résumé.

Oops.

 

WitW: Arrowtown, New Zealand

Welcome to Arrowtown; so charming it's frightening.

A long, long time ago, the Arrow Basin was carved out by glaciers and the Arrow River formed, "flowing like silver threads through the blackened scrub-clothed plains", on the banks of which Arrowtown sprung up in due fashion. It pattered along for a good few years until a shearer named Jack happened upon some gold and, well, you know how these things go.

These days, Arrowtown cashes in on its natural beauty, which you can sort of understand. I mean, this place has a week-long Autumn Festival just to celebrate how ridiculously pretty it is. They have a scarecrow competition and something called 'Bikes 4 Fun' and I am sure it's an absolute blast.



And they have a tiny little cinema. I mean, come on, Arrowtown. We know miniature is cute. You're killing us.

Of course, since 98% of New Zealand was used to film The Lord of the Rings trilogy (and subsequently the Hobbits, oh my goodness), Arrowtown's surroundings feature as the Fords of Bruinen, better known as the "if you want him, come and claim him" river.

It's probably more fun in summer.

 

All credit to my sources: Discover Arrowtown, Arrowtown Autumn Festival, eGlobal, Private Fleet, Dorothy Brown's, NZ Girl, Travel Blog

Where in the Wednesday is my weekly excuse to trawl through Google Images. It's a profile of the place I wish I was in and an attempt to draw my eye away from classic travel destinations. I write in the hope that you'll enjoy reading about all these places as much as I love learning and writing about them. Anywhere you think I ought to write about, from the obscure little town in your state to that place you visited in 1989? I'm at anscenicworld@gmail.com

 




 

20/20

For reasons too tragic to disclose (I'm learning to be responsible and senior at my once-a-week lolly shop job) I was up at five today. I'm not really a morning person, as evidenced by the fact that once, still drunk with sleep, I took a swing at a friend and made her lip bleed. Wonderful, wonderful me.

But I pulled myself out of bed at the prospect of those three sweet minimum wage hours (remember from the last post how desperate I am?) and off I went. In a way, it was nice; there was a sense of community in the mutual hatred of that ungodly hour. It was mostly weary tradies (do other countries use that word?) and shocked-looking businesspeople... and me, poor little lolly girl. You might feel like I'm getting a bit off-topic in a moment, but stay with me. One thing was different on this trip, and it wasn't the number of folks fumbling with broadsheets. I had new contact lenses.

For the right sighted, contacts and glasses and complicated surgery all seem like such a hassle. Let me level with you: for a vast majority of the time, they are. Apart from the cred you earn from having prescription glass in those frames and being able to terrify eight year-olds by sticking fingers in your eye, it's not much joy. But when you have your script updated; that's when I pity the optically sound.

How can I describe what it's like to relive the novelty of first sight? Over time, as your eyes wither, you don't notice that details fade. But when your -2.75 script jumps to a -3.50, you abruptly realise that you've been missing out. Everything is suddenly clear-cut and beautiful. The first thing I do is look at leaves; what grows to be a blurred green mess becomes thousands of individual shapes, all crisply edged with individual shadows. Then everything comes in a rush: power lines and eaves on houses and the deliberate lines of a skyscraper. The morning helped: I managed, through dumb luck, to time my departure so that my ten-minute walk fell in that golden half hour, when everything is dripping with light and you feel like the air is thick with it. (Naturally, I was too busy gawping at No Parking signs to take any proper pictures; just these blurry hot air balloons from the train.)

Sometimes it's the small things, I suppose.a