Non veni pacem mittere, sed gladium.
Enter the poor airman in his seaplane who lands and is looking for a home to spend the night and stave off the chill. Sort of a traveling salesman meme with an aviator.
As the aviator ties the seaplane off to a local rune stone for the night, he's met by a flaxen haired maiden from the local village, inviting him for dinner at the local inn. In the failing light of late evening, the aviator notices that the maiden's face is blessed with a constellation of joyous freckles. "I believe I may like it here," he says to himself, and follows her up the rough path toward the twinkling lights of the little village.
Is that what would be called Bucolic, except for the 9 months of winter and 6 feet of snow?