When I was younger, with much more time on my hands, I was an avid reader. I’d lock myself in my room, curl up in bed, and let my imagination escape into Narnian lands, or Enid Blyton’s faraway trees and enchanted forests, or places in other one-off novels like the Bridge to Terabithia (which made me cry).

It was when I’d teleport myself off to secluded little glades and barrel down green hilly slopes, sit on a stone walls nestled among the ‘heather’ and the ‘bracken’ in a ‘frock’ and have conversations with pixies and gnomes. I’d read of bluebells and daffodils and dandelions and four-leaf clovers, pounce on any tiny similarity I saw between the real-life dull, uninteresting tropical flowers and these magical faraway flowers, and pretend they were the flowers I wanted them to be.

Those times have ended; I am well on my way to becoming a 22-year-old. But these stories and the pictures they have imprinted on my brain remain. Sometimes I still daydream. Not of supernatural creatures of the wood (obviously), but I daydream of chancing upon picture-perfect, magical, unspeakably beautiful scenery that are manifestations of those stories and remind me of my secret alternate childhood.

This violet-carpeted little glade tucked away in one end of Kew Gardens on a gloomy spring day is one such manifestation. It would have been better if sun-rays were peeping through the leafy branches, but well – I will take what I can get. And maybe get Photoshoppin’.

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