Dragons have always stirred something deep in me—an emotional nostalgia tied to two powerful childhood memories. At St George’s Grammar School, where I spent my formative years, the presence of St George loomed large, both in name and in symbol. In the foyer, a commanding artwork depicted the legendary moment: St George, lance in hand, vanquishing a dragon. I passed it daily, and it etched itself into my young imagination—not just as a scene of conquest, but as a symbol of courage, myth, and mystery.
Around the same time, in early primary school, we read The Hobbit, and I encountered a very different dragon—Smaug. Unlike the defeated beast of the foyer painting, Smaug was cunning, regal, and terrifying. I was utterly captivated by the scenes where Bilbo, cloaked in invisibility, crept through the vast halls of gold to face the dragon alone. The tension, the quiet bravery, the shimmer of firelight on treasure—those images never left me. Between St George’s lance and Bilbo’s ring, dragons came to embody something more than monsters; they became symbols of the unknown, of imagination, and of the hidden treasures we discover when we dare to face what frightens us.
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| St George slaying the dragon |
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| Bilbo and Smaug |
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