2014, June. Giverny, France

My obsession with Claude Monet has been an enduring one and I was gifted a day trip to his estate in Giverney outside Paris for my birthday.

The morning dawns with a thundershower, casting Paris in gloom and the cold settles in. The air is fresh and invigorating. We decide not to cancel, we have already rented the car and paid for it, leaving us with little choice but to continue as planned.

The rain comes down in buckets as we drive on the expressway, following a map. It is not very far away but we are adapting to driving on the right/ wrong side of the road, the mirror opposite of home .

We press on, and eventually reach the tiny village of Giverny. We make our way past cafes and hotels cashing in on Monet s legacy. The town is quaint and best reached by road. I imagine it would normally be jammed with large tour buses. Today, there is hardly anybody. The rain has been kind to us!

The large parking lot is empty, and still the rain comes down. Luckily we are dressed for showers. We buy our tickets and make our way inside. We enter a skylit atelier, once Monet’s and now the gift shop.

Soon, I am standing before the artist’s large family home, the beautiful house of which I have a gorgeous photo book called Monet’s Kitchen ( he was quite the gastronome). I am now really excited to actually be here. The large estate has a hillside of gardens that end beside the pond made famous with its weeping willows and water lilies, and that famous green bridge. I can’t wait to explore.

I have chosen this milestone birthday to resolve that I would actively pursue beauty. In nature. In the environment. Not in things, but around me. To see a beautiful sunset, or a mighty mountain vista. To suffuse my being in awe inspiring beauty, places, little things like a painting or a garden, if not grand panoramas and meadows of flowers. The sound of music, simple meals that comfort the soul. Closer home, to use that teapot, eschewing mug-made tea. To find my joy in the small things- a pretty pillow case, a good book, rising above the mundane. I have been struggling so much with work and home that I have forgotten to make an effort with the little things, forgotten to be kind to myself.

Monet’s estate is beautiful to the core. It fills me up ,and saturates me with a deep feeling of utter bliss. I am steeped in the cold drizzle and grey skies, but the beauty of the gardens, the old house now a museum, the idea of Monet and his art, the lack of tourists makes it extremely peaceful and idyllic.

Most of the large tour buses have cancelled due to the weather, and we literally have the place all to ourselves for most of the day. This is such good luck literally raining down on us, making the day absolutely magical, etched deeply in my memory.

I am not a huge fan of ornamental gardens like Versailles and the more formal royal gardens across Europe. This, this wild, rambling, artfully planned garden imitates the European countryside in full bloom, a place to breathe and reflect and be dazzled in its compelling nostalgia for days long gone, and the gifts of Nature herself. Bucolic, idyllic, time stands still.

Acres of flowers, planted carefully look artfully careless, with cascading trellises of teacup roses, hyacinths, poppies and so many delicate blossoms. The roses outshine in their luscious colours and fragrance, but the tinier flowers create a carpet of colour as far as the eye can see. I am deranged, clicking photos of every blossom in macro, in wide, unable to stop, to always have this time and memory frozen in my head. The fragrant air is refreshing, raindrops artfully gleam like diamonds on vividly hued petals dotting the hillside: European flora at its finest.

The peak of summer and a thunderstorm has left everything washed and serene.

We walk down the hill to the famous bridge, the weeping willows framing the scene exactly like in the paintings. Waterlilies float in the large pond. Bright poppies fringe the edge, vivid in their red. I later learn the estate attracts gardeners from across the world who come to work here during planting season. The look changes each year, but remains within the Monet palette. The garden is shut in the winter, so we are very lucky to have made it here at all.

Anywhere I turn, Monet is alive, his scapes painting themselves. His blurry vision may have been instrumental to the Impressionist movement, but the gentle colours and technique are still all his. Monet has long been my favourite impressionist and artist; more than Leonardo or Michelangelo whose works are stunning by themselves, and inspire awe ( the Sistine Chapel is undoubtedly spiritual and magnificent and worthy of every accolade). Monet is beauty and softness, nature and romance even though many of his works are with people, out in nature.

I have a beautiful books, large, with photos of Monet’s art, his Giverny home, his recipes, his letters that inspired this visit. The book about his home is endearing: Monet’s daily life, his shopping lists and here is house, still perfectly preserved, the interiors with their vivid green trim, the large hearth in the kitchen, Monet’s studio, his bedroom, the air of the Maestro still at work; beautiful views from every window of the gardens, creaky wooden stairs and his magnificent kitchen with its copper pots and blue tile work.

We spend a lot of time by the large pond, even managing good photos on the normally always crowded bridge. I am in a daze with all this beauty, and dream wistfully of just such a house with an artfully rambling garden, birds and bees and little creatures at home in the bushes and flowers, while I sit by the window and write long books.

Eventually it is time to return to Paris and my diary reads only one line that night:
I have been in the presence of great beauty.

PS: After having read what is my favourite travelogue of all time, ‘ A Year in the World’, by Frances Mayes, travel and memoir writer extraordinaire, I resolved to find great beauty and allow myself to be awed. I resolved to visit the great gardens of Europe and drink my fill of Nature as I had imagined it from history books and pictures and fairy tales. In pursuit of this quest, I have determinedly visited gardens across Europe, in all seasons, from Paris to Amsterdam, Spain to Austria. I have bowed at magnificent trees and learned their history, and wept over trees that were burned during the war. When you travel , stop and stare at the trees lining avenues, and rivers, they are old, they have witnessed history in the making and they have lived. Hug trees and walk the gardens, imagine them centuries ago. Use your imagination.

recommended reading: Around the World in 80 trees

Anything by Frances Mayes ( her books on Tuscany are breathtaking)

Peter Mayle ( the Provence series) and

Bruce Chatwin