One of the things I enjoy least are cold spells in spring. With the arrival of February some days of warmth happen. Primroses, crocuses and daffodils flower, snowdrops are fading. Then - bang! – the wind turns round to the north and a huge cloud-hung blanket of arctic air descends from the Polar Vortex or some other extreme weather circumstance at the top of the world. Venturing forth in such conditions means the heaviest of clothes, fully drawn down hats and fingers frozen in the wind or from touching cold surfaces. Precocious plants wilt, frost stricken and the black branches of winter trees rattle their twigs in the icy blast. As one’s spirit sinks, the thought slinks into the brain that this might last for many weeks: March will go by, April get started and weather forecasts will still talk of late frosts and warn that “it is turning colder”.
With these grey thoughts I walked down to The Square Metre
in my slippers and gazed glumly at the winter flattened grass and leafless
trees and shrubs with unbelief that the great summer resurgence is only a few
weeks away. But in my mind the chill was
mitigated and the grey thoughts dimmed by the knowledge that the sunshine will
come back with added strength, growth will resume and my spirits will return to
a more acceptable place.
