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This is our greenhouse. It’s breathtaking, my favourite part of the estate.  My grandfather built it himself, for my grandmother. She was a writer, an artist and he loved nothing more than relaying stories about her magical greenhouse.  The roses that adorn the outer glass panels are the same roses she put in the very first year he built it. To this day they still bloom for most of the year. And even when they shrivel and die they still look beautiful up against the glass and wrought iron, as though she had planted a work of art.

I especially liked how it looked in the early evening, just as the days light was slipping away. It took on a gothic feel, with its pointed arches and its dark aesthetic.

There was a magnificent section down the far end. I was only young but I remember her writing there, often. I still have the book in which she wrote her herbal remedies. Tied with twine, barely able to contain it’s contents, snippets of fragile dried herbs and flowers. Folded pages for easy access to her favourite concoctions. Spells as grandfather liked to call them. Even as a child I recognised the ethereal feel of her creative space. We’ve kept it just as she had it. I like to write there myself, just a novice, but I’m deeply inspired in that room. I always feel as though I’ve opened a door into another world. In fact otherworldly is how I might describe grandmothers greenhouse. There are many an occurrence that have taken place there that I can’t quite explain.

There was this one particular morning. I was up early, with the first light, a rarity for me. If I’m honest I think there was some type of mystical hand at play.

I got out of bed, still in my white cotton night gown and made my way to the green house. It was the time of year, when everything was  lush, with much green foliage. The sun was starting to shine through the many glass panels, laser like shards cutting through the hazy morning light. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they did I was greeted with the most exquisite array of golden butterflies, gently fluttering but almost still. I was completely mesmerised, I’d seen the occasional butterfly, but this was extraordinary.

I lowered myself to the dusty floorboards, tucked my legs under my body and sat amongst them, captivated. I couldn’t tell you how long I sat there, I felt like I was part of an enchanted childhood fairytale.

Eventually the butterflies became less, until only a couple remained. I’m not sure where they went, it’s as though they were there and then they weren’t.

After that day, I returned to the greenhouse early each morning for a the longest time. I never saw them again. It was almost as if I’d imagined the whole experience. But in my heart I knew that somehow it was my grandmothers hand at play that magical morning.