Situated just outside of Creswick in the countryside, ninety minutes from Melbourne, our yellow doored cottage waited patiently for us. A weatherboard beauty that looked as though it had stepped straight out of a storybook, all charm and character and cottage garden wonder. Cuteness overload in the most sincere way. Hydrangeas in soft blues and blush pinks bowed gently over lush green grass while bees hummed from bloom to bloom, busy doing what bees do best.

Lover J and I arrived with one intention: less doing and more being. After all, we are human beings, not human doings. The air smelled of damp earth and blossoms, that sweet perfume only the countryside can create. Even before stepping inside the cottage, our shoulders softened and our breath slowed to match the rhythm of the garden. Through the front yellow door stretched a long kitchen space, rustic and inviting, sunlight spilling across the worn wooden floors. The shower was tucked away quietly at the end, private and unassuming, while the toilet sat at the other end of the stretch. A charming nod to old cottage living that reminded us history lingered here, and this home had held many stories long before ours. Fresh hydrangeas filled the lounge space, bringing the sweet outdoors in. And being the complete flower freak I am, I admired and inhaled their beauty, as does Lover J toward me. The bedroom connected to the lounge space, featuring an invitingly large bed with quality sheets, more flower beauty and hot water bottles for extra comfort.

We wandered the cottage garden slowly as we overheard the birds clearly gossiping about us. Ha! We picked some fruit from the orchard, juice sweet, and admired the garden in her full blooming glory. I felt myself bloom alongside her. An outdoor bath rested beneath grapevines and, being the creatives we are, our imaginations drifted. Thoughts were shared and flowers were gathered. Girl was soul deep floating in flowers and warm water. Lover J shared some poems while I bathed in all my flower glory. Dreams really do come true. Rain arrived as the sun slipped away. We took this as an invitation to retreat inside with cherry red wine. The sound of rain on the tin roof wrapped around us while the fire flickered and slow danced before our eyes. Curled together on the lounge, we moved with it, unhurried and close, the taste of wine and the crackle of wood weaving into the night.

Morning arrived delicately. A soft breeze through the window and the rich aroma of coffee my Lover had made before I woke. Homemade bread, fresh farm eggs, butter and jam tasted like comfort itself. Simple. Honest. Delicious. All gifts from our generous host. After the rain cleared, we wandered a nearby forest trail, everything washed clean and glistening. The air felt crisp in our lungs, fresher than daisies darlin’, as we laughed at nothing and everything.

On our final morning we rose slowly, breakfast on the back deck, a bagel kiss between sips of coffee while rosellas flashed red between branches. Little cuties! Even after checkout we lingered for a painting workshop with our host Cath, losing ourselves in brushstrokes and hydrangea blooms while rain tapped gently on the studio roof. I was in my absolute element. I love to create, especially with other creatives.

When it was finally time to leave, we thanked our little yellow door cottage for keeping us present, safe and warm. We drove away grounded and rejuvenated, hearts full, clothes faintly scented with flowers, carrying that cottage softness with us long after the road led us home. What a wholesome, heart filling time.