He was brand new to the expansive, rolling fields of the bound meadow. They were so different from his island gardens, visions of wilting flowers and palm leaves nothing compared to the wide moors which stretched as far as the eye can see. Georges was captivated — amazed by the glory of the long, flowing grasses under the ethereal vision of the heavens above. Paradise, sure enough, splaying over the inky sky each and every evening; two of which Georges had been so lucky to witness. Not that the islands weren’t beautiful themselves, but he much preferred the newfound experience that the meadow had to offer.
Such was the reasoning behind his dedication to discovering every inch; conducting voyages that went all day, and sometimes into the night. Georges was naturally a curious soul, therefore trekking along a seemingly endless expanse of territory was hardly boring to him — it was thrilling, taking in the springtime visage of Mother Nature. He was faultless in his exploration, admiring every bit of the meadow from the smallest bubbling brook, to each blossoming wildflower. But as his third evening was drawing nearer, he had to confess to those heavens above that this was the most beautiful scene he had come across yet.
Perhaps a remnant of a time long ago, the castle stood steadfast on the green horizon, watching over a blooming orchard garden nestled within the folds of hilly earth. The trees were tall and spindly, full of life and huge white and pink flowers, their petals drifting casually through the breeze. The grass was plush and green under his paws, gnarled pathways cobbled into the earth along the tree lines. Bright yellow eyes took in the sights of ripening lemons, hanging from old rain-washed and age-eaten wooden posts as he ducked underneath them, weaving around stocks of lavender and baby’s breath. Bushes full of flowers wound up old fences; grapevines dotted perches close to the earth. The sound of birdsong lifted his tufted ears and made his heart sore, taking in every dip and swell of the lush flora surrounding him. Such boundless beauty — what did they use it for? The trees, or the morale. He could imagine parties here under the stars, lit up by colored lanterns hanging from the branches, swaying with music. Or maybe they just napped under the shade; drank wine and lemonade and cider from the plants.
Content, Georges sighed.