I’d heard I would miss the Girona Flower Festival by a couple of days. Pity, because the bloom would blanket the alleyways, staircases and plazas of the whole city – apparently in a way its coveted limestone-hewn wonder would be almost unrecognisable, even for someone who’s been to Girona many times.

What they did forget to mention was that preparations for the Temps de Flors would take place way ahead of the event. Not that I minded; in fact, stepping into Girona Old Town then as opposed to my most recent memory of it, the element of surprise was delightful: voided of the tranquility and spaciousness that I remembered, the narrow corridors and wide squares were flooded in streams of blossoms.

Horticulturalists milled about assembling the floral stages and canvases, carrying their strides and energy as they shifted and shuffled earth and plant life; yet they were so meticulous at it, dextrous and delicate with every touch – as though they mimicked the paths and movements of worker bees buzzing amidst the flora.

I was glad to have witnessed that other disposition of Girona’s flower festival: not a sudden, unexplained overgrow overnight, but a gradual transformation of the medieval city fostered by the co-working hands of man and nature.