The warm sunshine on my back as I knelt to get a closer look at emerging bulbs in my garden today, tempted me to join the many other people uttering mentions of spring. Hazel catkins are now dusty and overstretched, dangling at their full length from many sun-bathed bushes. Beneath them are smiling faces of purest yellow; celandines, jostling for space with the daily increasing growth on warm path-side banks.
Every year, in March, a grand show of crocus emerge beneath the trees around the town pond. Carpets of soft mauve, interlaced with saffron threads.
Nights are still cold, evening walkers notice the day rapidly cooling, and each morning a thick grey blanket of fog clouds the valleys and hides the hills from view, to be gently tugged away by fingers of strengthening sun.