It only seems like a week ago that I was looking out at the trees behind the house and wondering if they were ever going to get leaves this year.  I could still see through the branches to the houses on the other side of Tollgate Hill.   Now they are in full leaf and it feels like there is a veritable forest behind the house rather than a few-metre strip of trees.
Even more dramatic is my hibiscus bush by the front door. When I left the house Tuesday it was a forlorn-looking bunch of twigs. When I got home Wednesday evening it was a mass of green: proper bush .
The grass verges around here are now like meadows with tall daisies, buttercups and other splashes of colour – either evidence of a slack grass-cutting regime by the council, the extreme fecundity of nature, or a bit of both.
At times like this its hard to be anything other than happy with life, and extremely easy to see how simpler, more rural society could be affected so much by spring as to start all those fertility rituals and myths.
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