As we approach the equinox, the days are lengthening rapidly (almost 30 minutes/week) ... the mornings are finally starting to lighten and the evenings are noticeably longer. Makes me wonder why the equinox was not more important in ancient cultures than the solstice! [or maybe it was?] And as the winter fades, the weather here continues to be best described as changeable. So I choose my time for jogs around the harbor, or weekend errands, based on periods of sunshine that usually punctuate the clouds, wind and rain. Therefore when Sunday dawned clear and sunny, I decided that it was an expedition/exploration day. Alison agreed to join me on a visit to Prior Park Landscape Garden in Bath. So what, you might well ask, is a landscape garden? According to Wikipedia “The term landscape garden is often used to describe the English garden design style characteristic of the eighteenth century, that swept the Continent... The work of Lancelot 'Capability' Brown is particularly influential.” Capability Brown? I had to keep digging. Capability Brown was apparently “England’s greatest gardner [with a name like that would you expect anything less?]... His style of smooth undulating grass, which would run straight to the house, clumps, belts and scattering of trees and his serpentine lakes formed by invisibly damming small rivers, were a new style within the English landscape, a "gardenless" form of landscape gardening, which swept away almost all the remnants of previous formally patterned styles”. That does seem an apt description of Prior Park, which sits just outside of Bath (~ 1 mile south of the train station) and is sculpted on an impressive hill, with the mansion (of golden Bath stone) commanding an imposing overview of the grassy slope and “Palladian” bridge over the lake below. OK, so I had to resort to Wikipedia again. “Palladian” refers to “a European style of architecture derived from the designs of the Venetian architect Andrea Palladio (1508–1580),” who was strongly influenced by classical (Greek and Roman) influences (which is pretty obvious when you see it).
The garden and surrounding, surprisingly rural, Bath environs were showing the first tentative signs of spring. Prior Park prides itself on February displays of snowdrops, which were certainly in evidence, carpeting much of the woodland floor. But there were also more subtle signs, including the smell of young wild garlic leaves crushed underfoot and the angle of sunlight on the moss of stone walls, signs of seasonal change. In Bristol, spring signs include small clusters of crocus in Brandon Park (my daily hill walk and fitness workout en route to the department) and also in the small planter that comprises the brick wall of my tiny (asphalt) garden.
Alison and I then bumbled our way onto part of the Bath Skyline walk... pretty descriptive, reflecting the fact that Bath itself is surprisingly hilly: the town hugs the Avon valley, with enclaves of classic Bath stone houses drifting up the steep protecting hills. We didn’t have time to walk along much of the path - will save that for future expeditions, as it does seem worth some time, especially when the skies are clear and the days are long.
On Sunday, gravity won as we slid down the hill through the spring mud; we stopped at a well placed bench for a (late) picnic lunch before descending toward the Avon-Kennett canal. And there we encountered a complex system of locks that gently and gradually lower sthroughgoing narrow boats around the city center. In the late afternoon the canal was calm and glowing in the low level light. A contrast to my harbor water, which always seems to be shimmering in the breezes funneled through the Avon Gorge.
The garden and surrounding, surprisingly rural, Bath environs were showing the first tentative signs of spring. Prior Park prides itself on February displays of snowdrops, which were certainly in evidence, carpeting much of the woodland floor. But there were also more subtle signs, including the smell of young wild garlic leaves crushed underfoot and the angle of sunlight on the moss of stone walls, signs of seasonal change. In Bristol, spring signs include small clusters of crocus in Brandon Park (my daily hill walk and fitness workout en route to the department) and also in the small planter that comprises the brick wall of my tiny (asphalt) garden.
Alison and I then bumbled our way onto part of the Bath Skyline walk... pretty descriptive, reflecting the fact that Bath itself is surprisingly hilly: the town hugs the Avon valley, with enclaves of classic Bath stone houses drifting up the steep protecting hills. We didn’t have time to walk along much of the path - will save that for future expeditions, as it does seem worth some time, especially when the skies are clear and the days are long.
On Sunday, gravity won as we slid down the hill through the spring mud; we stopped at a well placed bench for a (late) picnic lunch before descending toward the Avon-Kennett canal. And there we encountered a complex system of locks that gently and gradually lower sthroughgoing narrow boats around the city center. In the late afternoon the canal was calm and glowing in the low level light. A contrast to my harbor water, which always seems to be shimmering in the breezes funneled through the Avon Gorge.
And so as the evenings lengthen, I realize that I haven’t yet described the ways in which the harbor comes alive at night. Even during these winter months, the early evening hours are times of activity on and around the floating harbor: the footpaths are crowded with a combination of walking and biking commuters, as well as swarms of runners, all providing a sweeping sense of movement through the chilly dark. At the same time, rowing gigs and shells emerge from the docks to take possession of the water. Marked by the cold blue of their LED lights mounted at the bow and stern, they form moving points of light as they move along the harbor, which constrains boat traffic to up and down, back and forth, to and fro, the rhythm of the tides for which the harbor was constructed. When the gigs finish, they moor along side Baltic Wharf, bow and stern LEDs barely illuminating the silhouettes of crews clustered on the harbor walls, mingling with the other colored lights reflecting off the water - the orange of sodium street lamps, full spectrum yellow from the windows of the Baltic Wharf condos, the flashing red warning lights at the underfall (the overflow connection between the harbor and the Avon River diversion through “The Cut”), the blue of the boatyard lights... each color a shimmering band of color accented by the midnight blue of the harbor water under a cold starry sky, Orion and Sirius overhead, the winter guardians of the sky.
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