April Come She Will

O to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England - now!

ROBERT BROWNING Home-Thoughts, From Abroad

As I grow older, each springtime is more splendid than the one before - or so it seems to me. This year is no exception. These past few days of mild air and blue skies have seen spring advance in leaps and bounds. Today I dawdled through the village in  temperatures which must have been over 20º C. It was certainly the warmest day of the year so far. The daffodils were fading, but new life was everywhere: pear and crab apple blossom, a hint of blue on the bluebell stalks, the heady scent of vibernum's creamy flowers. In the countryside beyond the village it was too early for daisies, but bright yellow dandelions had popped up along the grassy verges since my last walk there, and the pure-white flowers of the blackthorn - glory of the English early spring - adorned the lanes like scatterings of unseasonal snow.

It felt unreal. It was nearly all too much. My senses were giddy with the freshness, with the shocking newness, with the pristine beauty of it all - the glare of the light, the first drifting insects, the druggy scents, the glowing greens and blues. Winter had starved me of colour, and this sudden burst of it was strangely psychedelic. Its vivid assault almost had me rushing back into the familiar, dull interior of the house.

    

But not quite - for here outside, in this verdant English spring, were miracles: such as the miracles of birds and birdsong. Birds are some of my favourite living creatures. Just imagine, if you can, a world without birds. Inconceivable, I think; the countryside would be so much the poorer, even a trifle sinister, without them. Yellowhammers - there's an abundance of them in the parish - flashed from bush to bush, peewits cried plaintively over the open fields, great tits boldly sang their two-note 'teach-er' song, chiffchaffs chiffchaffed away in the trees. Chiffchaffs are some of the earliest spring migrants to fly in from the south. I'd heard them singing a couple of weeks ago, and it's always heartening when they arrive.