Every season is my favourite at some point in the year. I always find that with the turning of the seasons comes a change that's not unwelcome. There's something to love about every season, but I often tire of them after a while and search for signs of the next season to come.
There's something special about springtime that I think marks it out as my absolute favourite season. Spring is the time of the year that both of my children arrived into the world. It is a time for new life, fresh buds and leaves emerging on the once bare branches of trees, which later festoon the streets with colourful sweet-smelling blossom. This aroma combines with the earthy scent of cows, which I don't find unpleasant at all but a vast improvement on the overpowering diesel fumes that we were used to in our previous urban dwelling.
When we walk along the quiet country roads that run along the edge of the village the surrounding fields are dotted with white and the air is alive with the bleats of spring lambs. The heady scent of the green fields combined with the bluest skies is enough to lift my spirits, even when for days on end the wind blows in gusts strong enough to hinder our mobility, and the fine rain sends chills through us.
The winter has been a mild one, but the arrival of spring as usual has been staggered, with an unexpected heatwave in February, before further snow showers into March. But I find the post February snow is limited in its capacity and never lasts long. Even when it settles it quickly melts when the snow showers dwindle into rain. I love the cosiness that comes with the colder months, but this is nothing compared with the warmth and hope that spring brings, along with the strong reminder that we survived another winter.
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