Spring in Western North Carolina

Spring is one of the big reasons we enjoy living in Western North Carolina. Asheville is amazing this time of year. Visitors begin besieging the Biltmore Estate to see the tulips and daffodils and tourists are beginning to swarm downtown Asheville, creating a congenial commotion as they wander around our streets, shops, restaurants and art galleries. Ahhhh. I love this time of year. Growing up in southern California, spring and autumn were pretty much just "theoretical" seasons. But the character of Asheville and all of western North Carolina completely changes with the turning of the gentle seasons. Joy and I are working in earnest this time of year, finishing up winter projects while there's still time, building up our inventory of oil paintings so we are ready for a new summer season.

So plan a trip! And when you visit Asheville, stop into St.Claire Art studio in the River Arts District and see what we're up to. There are more than 200 artists here and we will happily part with a map to keep you from getting lost! 


Now Spring Has Clad The Grove In Green
by Robert Burns

Now spring has clad the grove in green,
And strew'd the lea wi' flowers;
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen
Rejoice in fostering showers:
While ilka thing in nature join
Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone are mine
The weary steps of woe?

The trout in yonder wimpling burn
That glides, a silver dart,
And safe beneath the shady thorn
Defies the angler's art --
My life was ance that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I;
But love, wi' unrelenting beam,
Has scorch'd my fountains dry.

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot,
Nae ruder visit knows,
Was mine; till love has o'er me past,
And blighted a' my bloom,
And now beneath the with'ring blast
My youth and joy consume.

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs,
And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings
In morning's rosy eye:
As little reckt I sorrow's power,
Until the flowery snare
O' witching love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o' care.

O had my fate been Greenland snows,
Or Afric's burning zone,
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes,
So Peggy ne'er I'd known!
The wretch whase doom is, "hope nae mair,"
What tongue his woes can tell!
Within whase bosom, save despair,
Nae kinder spirits dwell.