Rural Houses for Full Rent and Apartments with charming Gardens

Rusticae, the leading Boutique Hotel Selection Club in Spain, recommends the best rural houses for full rent and apartments with garden.

A garden is more than just a garden. It is a magical place where every night an organized team of fairies and nymphs take control of ponds, trails and flower beds along with greenhouses, gazebos and sheds. The first rays of light announce withdrawal, leading to the opening of doors for human unbelievers who believe they possess earthly virtues with which to tame untamed nature. Let's be condescending, the fairies say, and let them enjoy the French, vertical, English, romantic, classical, Arabic or Japanese garden. For this Rusticae proposes to look for a good tribune from where to be part of this exciting scenery, in some of its wonderful rural houses and apartments with garden.

Speaking of gardens, we will not be the ones to get into one that we were not called to, and we will leave the teachers of the word to open the doors for us to such a gentle word that evokes so many good things. Machado wrote in his poem Jardín: “Far from your garden, the afternoon burns golden incenses in glittering flames, behind the forest of copper and ash. There are dahlias in your garden. Ill be your garden! ... Today it seems to me the work of a hairdresser, with that poor dwarf palmerilla, and that box of cut out myrtle trees ..., And the orange tree in its barrel ... The water of the stone fountain does not stop laughing on the white shell. ”

The great Alberti, in the poem Elegía wrote: “The moisture insects, the ladybugs of San Antón, the earthworm also wandered and the snail skated. Childhood of mine in the garden; Gardening queen! the chickpea stuck its nose out and the birdseed in the cage was dying. Childhood of mine in the garden: the plant of sighs was dissolved by the air. ”

The immeasurable Octavio Paz succumbed to the beauty of the term in his poem Jardín dedicated to Juan Gil Albert: “Drifting clouds, sleepwalking continents, countries without substance or weight, geographies drawn by the sun and erased by the wind. Four adobe walls. Bougainvillea: in its peaceful flames my eyes bathe. The wind passes between praises of foliage and grass on your knees. The heliotrope with purple steps crosses wrapped in its aroma. There is a prophet: the ash and a brooding: the pine. The garden is small, the sky is immense. Surviving greenery in my rubble: in my eyes you look at yourself and you touch yourself, you know yourself in me and you think of me, you endure me and you fade away from me.

The penultimate poem that we will read in any of the rural houses and / or apartments with a Rusticae garden is that of Marilina Rébora. lemon Tree; the scissor tail showed a swallow and the sparrow revving, from pious messenger. Beneath the trees was the fine grass lovingly combed, daily by the gardener; the federal star bled at every corner and, as if it were unique, in his little leg, the uterus. This is how the garden of my games passed, once a paradise of dreams, a land of fantasy so that nostalgia longs for it so much now. Although life kills, little by little, perhaps, it is true and we want to return to the simple joy of a garden, some flowers, an orchard or some garden. ”