There were big gaps between the raindrops last night. There was not enough rain, I said to my sister as she fussed around looking for the dark prince’s exercise sheet, to really get a horse wet. Certainly not enough, I thought, to nourish the parched, cracked earth. But I was wrong.
Driving to work this morning, things looked different. The verges were more lush and verdant than yesterday; the white and pink blossom more thickly stippled atop the trees. Suddenly, the golden yellow gorse bushes were burning for attention, while the first candles have appeared on the horse chestnuts that stand sentinel on the roadside.
The rich banks of trees that screen the fields from the A1 are tiptoeing towards ripeness. Some architects of arboreal excellence knew what they were doing; surely this mixture of rich greens, emeralds, peridots and scatterings of cream confetti is more than a happy accident? Look closely, and you can see there is so much more to come as pale buds awaken on bare branches that hide behind the fertility of their neighbours.
I adore this time of year; not yet the blowsy riot of flaming June, the plants and trees are establishing and delighting themselves once again. The yellow trumpeting daffodils give way to the shy, sap-stalked bluebells hiding in green shadows. Some might say it’s grim up north; me, I think it’s just perfick.