My second favourite time of year (autumn is the best, no contest): it’s like a gift after the bleakness of winter, a reward for putting up with bare trees and earth. The spring flowers, of course, and the butterflies which are delightfully somewhat more plentiful this year but most of all the surprisingly sudden greeness of trees and fields, and the quality of that greeness. I love the fresh, clean, soft green of new leaves that seem to appear almost overnight, and the accompanying softness of the air as the days lengthen and warm: you easily understand why this time of year gave rise to all manner of pagan renewal rites (I’m off to one very soon). It’s a hugely optimistic time of year, the moreso now after two years of pandemic: a time for making plans for the summer and beyond, for shedding the layers of winter and feeling the sun, even for enjoying the showers.
And here’s the thing: it has to be an English spring for me. I’ve experienced the season in several other countries and, somehow, it’s not quite the same without the small scale charms of the English countryside. We do modest better than anyone else.
