Sprung

It seems like just a week since I clocked the first subtle signs of spring and yet the countryside is already sporting some of it most fancy clothes. The blackthorn, the first of the blossoms to appear in the fields and beside the lanes, is dressed in fragrant white. Go near it at your peril: its thorns are a powerful deterrent to anyone seeking minimalist Japanese flower arrangements. Soon the hawthorn will follow. The pink magnolia stellata in my front garden is in full bloom too, and the hedges are slowly filling up with a delicate green. At the bottom edge of my garden where a row of plum trees straddles the ditch and lingers from an earlier occupant, the masses of flowers are an encouraging sight. One year I filled the freezer with container after container of juicy fruit that went into a series of wonderful winter puddings, but the next year there was barely a mouthful. Slow down spring, I want to cry, take your time to unwind. There's so much to savour, but every day it is changing.

Today I set about power-hosing the concrete base of the summerhouse, a filthy but deeply satisfying job. This year it was exacerbated by the masses of compost flicked out of the plant containers by - what? - a rat? It made a right mess, and I've put off cleaning it up until now. The concrete always comes up bright and fresh, a thing of brutalist beauty. Suddenly it looks big and bare, and I try to think of how to cover it. More pots? Some raised beds? I wouldn't have chosen such a spacious base for the summerhouse but it was already there under the stable and tack room, and I live with it. I got most of it clean, but Hugo was strangely unsettled, perhaps by the incessant noise. in the end I left off the work and loaded him into the car for his favourite walk. How fine he looks, running ahead of me and scanning all around for things to chase. He's really a magnificent animal, slim and muscled, fast and graceful. I never tire of watching him.