There are finally signs of spring. The snowdrops in the wood are starting to fade and bright green spears of garlic are just emerging. Soon the air will be redolent of pasta and cassoulet and this will doubtless prove fatal to my desultory attempts to be rid of the winter lard. It is cool and brisk. Hatless forays have proved disappointing and I am still reaching for my gloves as often as not. Mud free walks are rather at a premium. We came back from Norham liberally coated a few days ago and a tentative foray into the Hirsel woods started splendidly but by the end I was walking an inch off the ground. The going is slightly better around the back of the loch, though Lyra’s penchant for puddle sook does not help. There is, however, a little stream at the half way mark which proves a useful stopping point for the washing of hairy feet. On good days we risk the riverside, where the grassy path is dryish provided you remember to skirt the many molehills. The wind blows chill there though. Whilst tree loppers have gathered a series of pyres, just ready for the immolation of annoying crones, they have been unable to catch any as yet (mum has quite the turn of speed) and so there are no cozy flames to warm the hands. On the worst of days we have made stately promenades around the walled garden to admire the quince and the crocus and to say hello to the coos.
Today, on gardening avoidance mode, Lyra and I took to the back lane. A brisk wind had dried out the worst of the puddles and we skipped briskly along the road and up the hill towards the farm before turning to loop back on a narrow track that runs between two fields. The wheat there is maybe a foot high now, too short for the surfing crests and swoops that the summer winds whip up. Instead, bright green wavelets rippled and fizzled around Lyra’s feet. She was not of a mind to paddle and ambled over to snuffle and snoofle in the long grass under the stop-start hedge. I scanned the still soft clay at the side of the field. Emerging thistles had appeared, like spiny spiderwebs and, beside the myriad hare foot prints, thumb sized oval pads tipped with an aureole of pricks from tiny nails, there were the incisions of deeper, crueller claws. Mr Tod Fox has been scouting.
Heading up the hill, here and there a tiny white feather balanced on the point of a spear of grass spoke of baby wood pigeons. Young pines planted in the game corridor waved branches like cartoon cactus above the bleached desert white of the canary grass and the roots of a fallen tree made a blackened sun star. There’s a sparse wildness still about the hedgerow, all bare tangled stems and bramble ropes bearing little but thorns, the only colour lichen yellow. Coming back up the drive our garden looked douce and bonny, shining with the bright colours of spring and my resolve began to quiver. Thankfully, a well timed speck of rain justified cake and laziness by the fire
