A Place In Different Seasons Essay -- essays research papers

The place to be described is totally imaginary, although it may bear some resemblance to a childhood memory of yours. The house and surrounding fields and mountains (for it is these I will endeavour to describe in different seasons) are so exquisitely picturesque: The long, wide, oak slatted cabin with the rolling fields stretching far into the distance, and beyond. Behind the house (as I like to call it) is an expanse of some three hundred or so yards before abruptly halting to make way for a stream. The stream is like one time itself forgot, like the one you would expect to find fairies sitting by. Beyond that the vast mountain range, ominous against a clear blue sky and casting definite shadows across the house and fields. The snow-capped peaks are those that I have climbed many a time; and they always seem to be different in contour or shape. There is a beautiful horse chestnut tree just two fields away from the house, and countless others dotted around near it; ash, beech, oak, the list goes on and on. It’s wonderfully peaceful up here, no one to disturb you. In autumn the landscape changes so much, almost too much. The leaves fall off the great oak, and it looks so miserable and bare; I have often thought of wrapping it up in a blanket. The horse chestnut is yielding fruit (if you can call it that). There is nothing I like more than sitting in front of the log fire and roasting horse chestnuts; marvellous. The fields, once, not long ago were teeming with poppies and f... A Place In Different Seasons Essay -- essays research papers The place to be described is totally imaginary, although it may bear some resemblance to a childhood memory of yours. The house and surrounding fields and mountains (for it is these I will endeavour to describe in different seasons) are so exquisitely picturesque: The long, wide, oak slatted cabin with the rolling fields stretching far into the distance, and beyond. Behind the house (as I like to call it) is an expanse of some three hundred or so yards before abruptly halting to make way for a stream. The stream is like one time itself forgot, like the one you would expect to find fairies sitting by. Beyond that the vast mountain range, ominous against a clear blue sky and casting definite shadows across the house and fields. The snow-capped peaks are those that I have climbed many a time; and they always seem to be different in contour or shape. There is a beautiful horse chestnut tree just two fields away from the house, and countless others dotted around near it; ash, beech, oak, the list goes on and on. It’s wonderfully peaceful up here, no one to disturb you. In autumn the landscape changes so much, almost too much. The leaves fall off the great oak, and it looks so miserable and bare; I have often thought of wrapping it up in a blanket. The horse chestnut is yielding fruit (if you can call it that). There is nothing I like more than sitting in front of the log fire and roasting horse chestnuts; marvellous. The fields, once, not long ago were teeming with poppies and f...