April 19th, 2004

The Write Of Spring

It is definitely Spring, that awkward season that never knows quite where to put itself. Too much sunshine to feel comfortable with Winter, too little warmth to make friends with the Summer months. Bright and clear, sometimes; cold and wet, sometimes; drab and drizzly so that you'd almost think November had made a return seven months early. Often, all three in one day.

I walked to the postbox just now, rushing to catch the last post (so, nothing new there, then). The sun was out, and bright. Almost sunglasses weather, but barely warm enough to venture out without a coat, and that only because the postbox is just a couple of hundred yards away. The birds were singing enthusiastically, and the air was full of smells of growing things; grass and bushes waking up, flowers in bloom, trees in blossom.

It really is the sort of day which makes you wonder where the first part of the year went.

The weekend in IpswichCollapse )