Of all the phases of the year, high spring is probably my favourite; a sequence of heydays when there is almost a reluctance to sleep for fear that something might be missed. Time spent indoors, particularly during daylight hours, feels somehow like an opportunity irretrievably lost.
If autumn is the season of contemplation, winter one of resolve and endurance, summer heavy with the promise of sullen languor; it’s spring which seems defined by optimism and activity. Defined too by its clarity: of light and sound; and of purpose – building, mating, feeding, rearing, growing…
[Top] Blossom a little past its peak; leaves not quite full; bluebells approaching their best.
[Above – higher] The quieter paths are often the ones to seek out.
[Above – lower] Scale isn’t always the defining factor: there can be astonishing variety in an area no bigger than a football pitch.