After a two-hour conversation with Michal, the clouds had finally parted. The sky opened up into a brilliant blue, and the warmth of the sun filtered through the trees, gentle, golden, and reassuring. It was one of those rare spring days that felt both fresh and familiar. With the weather finally turning kind, I decided it was the perfect moment to take Joan out for a little trip. I’d been wondering whether the rzepac, (rapeseed), was still in bloom. With the chaotic mix of cold snaps and rainstorms we’d had over the past few weeks, I wasn’t sure what to expect.
We headed north, toward the town of Oborniki, about 30 miles away. The drive there is one I’ve always loved: rolling fields, scattered farmhouses, and long stretches of open land that, in springtime, often glow with the deep yellow of flowering rzepac. Sure enough, as we drove, the familiar fields came into view. But most of them had already passed their peak, the vibrant yellow now muted, the flowers beginning to fade. What once had been an overwhelming sea of color and scent was now just a soft whisper of the season’s high point. Still beautiful, in a quieter, more reflective way.
On our way there, we passed through Szamotuły, and I couldn’t help but mention the palace outside town, the small, elegant manor where Joan and I had once spent a weekend celebrating an anniversary. It was a modest place by palace standards, with only about twenty rooms total, including a dining room, a meeting room, a cozy kitchen, and a handful of guest rooms. We had stayed on the second floor, our window overlooking a serene pond and a small patch of woods. I can still picture the way the light danced on the water in the early morning, and how peaceful it all felt,like time had slowed down just for us.
In Oborniki, we parked near the town square, which was pleasantly quiet that afternoon. I took Joan for a stroll, slowly circling the square while I snapped a few photos. Across from where we had parked was a charming little café with just four tables set out near the sidewalk. It was the kind of spot that seemed to invite you to pause, so we did. We ordered coffee and sat watching the life of the town unfold, people chatting, a dog barking in the distance, someone unlocking a bicycle. The Sunday rhythm of a small town in spring.
Before we left, I took a few more photos, this time of the old church that stood not far from the square. Its bricks and tall steeple seemed to hold the stories of centuries even though it wasn't that old. It was a quiet end to a quiet outing, the kind of day that doesn’t announce itself but stays with you nonetheless, soft, unhurried, and full of small moments that gently settle into memory.
