Unadorned yet with leaves, yet with tulip blooms revealing their inner layers, ready to point to the compass marks and every heading in between, an ivory feather duster palm greets the spring sunshine on my way to work, just as the camellias bring forth their third flush of pink and carmine. The best one in the village is just about to peak (again), but unusually has already started to grow out its shoots of paler green and fresh foliage. The bravest of all these plants began at Christmas, in that warm spell we enjoyed away from work and strolling and chasing children, who hoped, forlornly, for snow.
Now a variety of bees buzz in the garden, spiders are already looking round and ready to lay their silked eggs. The birds pair off by species. Robins are building by the conservatory, in a pile of pots; blackbirds strut and squabble; doves love and coo; a trio of coaltits confounded the still air on Sunday by the compost bins. Last afternoon, while washing up, a brimstone fluttered. Two weeks since, the pond started to gel with the spawn of frogs; the water's surface dances every time I pass en route to the shed with potential mates, bathing.
Saturday was beautiful. Saturday was gorgeous, down by the Solent, a few rounded sails passing in front of the needles. We visited the sailing club to sit or stand and chatter, laziness excused by refreshments. A very few were sailing, but spring cleaning and the first mechanical service of the year were being exercised out on the water; tenders plied and faces shone at the prospect of the start of water sports again.
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