“Hope is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul“
– Emily Dickinson, ‘Hope is the Thing With Feathers‘
As I left the house this morning, there was a ruckus, a tumult, maybe even a skirmish in the hedge outside. Excited screeches, twitterings, and chatterings drew my attention to movement amongst the tangle of Dog Rose, Bramble, and Blackthorn that make up the field boundary opposite my house. Fluttering and flapped ensued, the hedge stems moving as if in a strong wind before a couple of House Sparrows emerged triumphant into the sunshine and perched on the topmost stems, surveying their territory with evident (if somewhat anthropomorphised) satisfaction.
I love House Sparrows. They remind me of the students at school: Their plumage has the potential to look dapper, but somehow doesn’t, looking slightly scruffy and dusty instead. They hang around in large numbers but don’t manage to co-exist peacefully, constantly squabbling and bickering amongst themselves. They eat continuously and in ridiculously large quantities. At my old house, I used to put out a large bag of peanuts in the feeders, only to discover them all devoured in an hour or so. For small birds, they’re noisy, always communicating with each other in strident tones. But in their own brash way, they’re charming and delightful.
House Sparrow (Passer domesticus) surveying his territory with a particularly smug look on his face.
Sadly, these charming little birds are endangered, their numbers having declined by approximately 75% since the early 1970s. They’re currently on the Red List of Birds of Conservation Concern. From being one of the most ubiquitous species in urban spaces, they are now something rarely seen and no one really knows why.
I count myself as very lucky that I see them most mornings, both in my hedge and in the Leylandii hedges on my way to work. I say see, often I hear much more of them than I actually see, although their fluttering and quick glimpses of their tail feathers as they dive into the hedge away from me are a common sight.
Sparrows are a recurring trope in literature; they often represent love, loyalty, and hope. In fact, Emily Dickinson’s poem ‘Hope is the Thing With Feathers’ (see below) uses the image of a sparrow, clinging on to its perch as a direct symbol of lasting hope and tenacity. We can only hope that this tenacity keeps them in our towns and gardens in the future.
They are thought to bring good luck with them and can be seen as an omen of protection if they nest under the eaves of your house. Perhaps we can all bring a little more luck to ourselves by installing sparrow nesting boxes in our gardens.
Trying to stay steady, even when each leg is clutching a separate stem.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard – And sore must be the storm – That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land – And on the strangest Sea – Yet – never – in Extremity, It asked a crumb – of me.
“Any stone that sits in a field or lies on a beach takes on the memory of that place.” – Andy Goldsworthy
I honestly don’t think I own a coat that hasn’t got at least one pebble in its pockets. There is a special joy when you put your hands in your pockets and find them filled with that perfect pebble; smooth and just the right size and shape to be comfortable.
They’re comforting, giving me something to hang on to as I wander along. I don’t like my hands to be empty; it feels wrong somehow to have them sitting limp in my pockets. Having an object to hold gives them purpose.
At this time of year, they make the best reusable handwarmers, rapidly heating up from the heat in my hands and then radiating it back to me as my hands cool, the process repeating again and again as I progress. In autumn, they occasionally get displaced by conkers, which feel silken, almost oily against my hands, but lose heat far too quickly. The pebbles soon make their way back into my pockets.
But more important than all of that, my pebbles are memories. Memories of the freezing December day on the sands at Scremerston, or the brisk autumn morning crunching along the groynes at West Runton. Memories collected over the years and radiated back to me along with that precious heat.
I have an almost smooth, heather grey pebble with a thick pink line going round almost in the exact centre. Slightly crystalline grains shine from within. It reminds me of Coldingham beach and building Goldsworthyesque sculptures with my niece, back when she wasn’t too ‘cool’ to play in the stones.
There’s a more angular (but still rounded), darker grey nugget with a double line of quartz crystals running through it. It’s much smoother than the others, almost waxy, and warms quickly as I clutch it in my hand. I don’t remember where this one came from, but its so pleasant to hold, I can’t bring myself to discard it.
A rounded, but otherwise unremarkable lump of slightly rough grey stone reveals two startlingly white and incredibly clear sections of fossilised crinoid as I turn it over. I think back to that freezing Boxing Day walk on Scremerston Sands when I picked it up as I scrambled over the rocks on the way back to the car ahead of the incoming tide.
An elongated kidney shaped, reddish brown stone has a surface scored with what look for all the world like stretchmarks. This one came from the shingle stretch at the beginning of the long trek out to Blakeney point and the stretches of pale purple Sea Lavender that can be found there.
Another pebble, pale grey with a multitude of polka dot fossils running through it, came from the beach next to Lindisfarne Castle on a blustery walk with my mum and sister. I found a crab shell that day, perfectly perforated along its lateral edge.
Finally, there’s my hagstone. Also found at Scremerston, it was handed to me by my mum on a summer trip. Hagstones are thought to bring good luck when kept in your pocket, warding off evil witches and, when you look through the hole, revealing the hidden secrets of Faerie. I can only assume it’s working as I don’t think I’ve ever seen a witch ….
I remember once lending my coat to a student who’d turned up for a Geography field trip without one. At the end of the day, she brought it back to me and asked why I had pockets full of stones. I told her they were pocket pebbles, and she told me I was weird.
“Did you find yourself holding them all day?” I asked her.
“Yes,” came the quiet response as she left the office.
And that’s why everyone should have pocket pebbles. Be weird, carry some tangible memories with you, and keep your hands warm at the same time. It’s a win, win situation.
“blossom as light, blossom as hope after winter’s tunnel, after the narrow dark”
– Simon Armitage, Blossomise
Every year, thousands of people from all over the world gather in Japan under the sakura or cherry trees for hanami. This custom of ‘flower viewing’ dates back to around 710 and is a tradition that may have originated in China. Although it was originally used to divine the year’s harvest, these days, it’s a social occasion enjoyed by both younger and older generations, albeit in slightly different ways. The short-lived flowers serve as a metaphor for life itself, luminous and beautiful yet fleeting and ephemeral. The practice of admiring the flowers is so deeply rooted in Japanese culture that even the Japanese Met. Office predict and announce the ‘flower-front’ as it sweeps across the country in March.
I was thinking about this on my walk yesterday morning; why don’t we revere our native blossom in the same way?
Every spring, the bare branches of our native Blackthorn (Prunus spinosa) trees produce the most beautiful white blossom, seemingly from nowhere in mid to late March. Overnight, the dark skeletal hedgerows become scattered with white stars that become thicker and more abundant until the branches are loaded with a thick coating of dense white blooms and the floor beneath looks like a late dusting of snow has fallen.
But instead of revering our floral treasure, we have instead saddled it with a sinister reputation. We cast this ethereal beauty in the role of a sinister plant, connected with ill-intentioned magic, wounds, war, doom, and death. Now I will admit that the wounds perhaps make sense; who here has not got caught on a blackthorn branch while picking sloes or taking a cheeky shortcut? The scratches it inflicts can be deep and painful. But sinister seems a little unfair.
As one of the earliest flowering plants, Blackthorn is a valuable food source for both bees and various forms of caterpillar. In autumn, the viciously sour, purply blue fruits can be collected to make sloe gin; that most luxurious of liqueurs. In summer, I used to tell my younger sisters that these same viciously sour fruits were edible to see what faces I could get them to pull, but maybe that’s just a me thing … I miss the days when they were still young enough and stupid enough to believe me when I told them they tasted good!
But the Blackthorn as a culinary treasure comes later in the year; in Spring, it’s a purely aesthetic delight. Like the Japanese, we, too, should gather to admire the delicate nature of its flowers. Perhaps if we valued the species that were under our noses, we would be less inclined to destroy them.
So, next time you’re out and about and you come across a Blackthorn tree, stop for a moment and enjoy. Admire the contrast of the snowy petals against the vivid green of the emerging leaves. Look closely at the pollen packets atop their slender anthers; they seem to vary from sunshine yellow to a more orange colour.
Be quick because the Hawthorn trees are already coming into leaf, and their slightly creamier white blossom won’t be far behind. The Crab Apples are already producing flower buds, so their pale blush pink petals will be out there soon. I love both of these, along with the glossy spires of Bird Cherry and the slightly crumpled hanging flowers of Wild Cherry, but there’s something special about Blackthorn.
Maybe it’s the optimism of a tree that literally puts blossom before all else, maybe it’s that it forms part of the first wave of spring or maybe it’s the way its white flowers seem to glow in the early spring sunshine. Whatever it is, I can highly recommend paying a little more attention to this common shrub; believe me, it’s worth your while.
“And the wood was still, stiller, but yet gusty with crossing sun. The first windflowers were out, and all the wood seemed pale with the pallor of endless little anemones, sprinkling the shaken floor.”
– D H Lawrence, ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’
I love Wood Anemones; they have to be one of my favourite spring flowers. They carpet the floor of my local wood, almost ghostly in appearance with their delicate white petals covered in an intricate tracery of even more translucent lines. They’re an indicator for ancient woodland, woodland that has always been woodland, that has remained undisturbed since at least 1600AD. My local wood has a historical record going back to the 10th century, so we’re talking over a thousand years of trees, of woodland flowers, and of the creatures that rely on both. Wandering along animal paths through the trees, surrounded by Wood Anemones, Primroses, and Celandines always gives me a real sense of place and history.
There are various myths surrounding the origin of this delicate flower, including a belief that it sprang from the tears of Aphrodite or Venus when she was grieving the death of her lover Adonis. Another claim is that it is the embodiment of the nymph Anemone who was loved by Zephyrus and transformed into the flower by his jealous wife.
This beautiful flower has a wealth of folkloric associations as well, although some of them do seem a little contradictory in places.
Perhaps because they have such a short flowering season (mid March to May), the Ancient Greeks believed them to be a symbol of early death.
In various parts of Europe, they were associated with the devil, or witches. The lore seems a little unsure about this however as some people used them to ward off witches, while others believed they were used by witches. The Germans even called them Hexenblumen or Witch’s Flower.
In the UK, it was thought that picking these flowers would bring on a storm, earning them the name Thunderbolt. However, the Romans considered wood anemones a lucky charm and would pick the first flowers to appear each year to ward off fever. Apparently, picking the first three flowers of the year keeps you illness free. Maybe I should take some into school and try to improve attendance … worth a try, right?
In the Victorian language of flowers, the anemone represented a forsaken love of any kind. Perhaps not what you want to see in any bouquet you’re presented with.
Perhaps my favourite of the stories is that the forest fairies would use them for shelter, snuggling into them and closing the flower at night-time or during bad weather. As the flowers do close in bad light (dusk or rainy weather both count), I always imagine being able to peel open the petals to reveal sleeping sprites.
Next door’s Magnolia tree, looking and smelling magnificent at the moment.
“Its symptoms are many and various, and may include some, or all, of the following: tear drops, sudden laughter, a feeling of warmth, and a peculiar uplifting of the heart”
– Brian Bilston
Phew! It’s been quite a week! This week has been, simultaneously, the deadline for mock marking, work experience deadline, and the school production. Hence the radio silence on my part …
… I say that, but one of my favourite parts of being backstage for the production is that we have a backstage comms system and I get to walk round with my headset on, looking, as one of our ex-students said on Wednesday, “like a secret service agent” (thanks Ruby!) and utterly confusing the cast by having conversations of which they can only hear one side (usually while also talking to them about something completely different)!
We did it! We staged the Lion King on Wednesday and Thursday with a cast of high school students, and it was a resounding success. Despite the utter shambles of our final rehearsals, the last-minute panics, and the fact that, two minutes before the curtain went up, we had one lying on the floor with his legs in the air because he was about to collapse, another one with a nose bleed and two with broken masks that needed fixing before the opening number, they absolutely smashed it. I have never been prouder (… since last year’s production when they also filled me with pride).
But what made me even prouder were the little snippets of kindness that they showed all the way through:
Our Year 8 Rafiki is autistic and struggles with some social interactions. She’s also very anxious about how others perceive her and whether or not shes talented enough to be there. (Spoiler Alert: her version of ‘He Lives in You’ sends literal shivers down my spine every time I hear it … even after rehearsing the show for several months!) So, to see one of the Year 10 boys constantly checking in with her while they were both backstage was a delight. They had a system of thumbs up and smiles that was simple but, judging by the look of joy on her face, very effective.
I was having a slight backstage meltdown during one of our full run throughs about a couple of students who were completely ignoring everything I told them about where they needed to be and the appropriate behaviour I required from them. So, our Year 11 Simba sang ‘Hakuna Matata’ to me (with the dance) very loudly while grinning from ear to ear. By the end of the song, my inner peace had been restored, and I was grinning along with him. I would just like to point out that he was meant to be singing at that point; we needed the ensemble to sing from the wings as well as the characters on stage!
In the moments when quick costume changes were needed, all of the cast were helping each other out, making sure costumes were where they needed to be and helping characters get costumes on where required.
When our Year 7 Young Nala got stood on in one of the numbers and was sobbing in the changing rooms afterwards, one of them provided tissues, one fetched her a bottle of water, and one grabbed emergency mascara for some quick makeup repairs. All while I was checking to make sure there was no real damage to her toe.
Two of our Year 11 girls had also written an amazing speech for our Director (and Performing Arts teacher) for the final night and gave it to her while handing her flowers (along with a pack of celery and a pot of hummus as apparently that’s all she’s eaten all week!).
And people say teenagers are oblivious of the feelings of others? Pfft!
The tiny, subtle green flowers of Dog’s Mercury (Mercurialis perennis)
“Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year.”
– Ralph Waldo Emerson
I set off this afternoon, utterly convinced that I would get to Wayland Wood and find carpets of Wood Anemones, glowing ethereally in the sunshine. They would be interspersed with the pale, buttery yellow of Primroses and brighter, liquid yellow puddles of Lesser Celandine. The spindly, almost translucent flowers of Yellow Star-Of-Bethlehem would lurk in darker corners, under the Bird Cherry that would have burst into clouds of delicate white flower spikes.
I arrived at the wood, I navigated the muddy, water-filled ravines of the car-park, I parked, I squished and squelched along the path and found ….. a brown, wintery wood with the papery leaves of Hornbeam rustling in the wind and puddles for days. Yes, there were some signs of spring. Yes, bright green leaf buds were beginning to burst on the trees. But there was none of the flowers, none of the lush greenness I was expecting! And I was disappointed. Not disappointed enough to turn around and walk away, but there was, nevertheless, a small voice in the back of my brain telling me that this walk was just a repeat of the one a couple of weeks ago, a bit of a waste of time. I plodded off along the path, a bit disheartened, despite the golden, if somewhat cold, sunshine.
A beautiful rosette of leaves splotched with deep, dark purple, heralding the eventual arrival of an Early Purple Orchid (Orchis mascula).
As ever, walking in the woods worked its subtle magic. The stresses of life faded away and were replaced by a sense of peace. Instead of focusing on what wasn’t there, I started to see what was. As I rounded a corner, I saw my first orchid rosette of the year, its purple splotched leaves cushioned in a bed of moss. I noticed how far the area that was coppiced a couple of years ago has grown up, the branches tangled and laced together to form almost a single organism. Despite the lack of leaves, they worked remarkably well to conceal whatever was rustling its way away from me. A Hare loped away unhurriedly into the undergrowth, its long back legs the only thing visible, but instantly recognisable regardless. The smooth leaf spikes of what will be an extensive carpet of Bluebells in a month or so’s time tinted the leaf litter a bright green. Here and there, patches of wrinkly green Primrose leaves circled protectively around their tightly furled flower buds.
One of the very few Primrose (Primula vulgaris) flowers I found; a ‘thrum’ type flower with its central ring of anthers.
I found a fallen tree with a conveniently placed branch to lean on, and I sat down. There’s a funny thing about sitting in a wood; at first, you feel like an intruder, like you shouldn’t be there, but the longer you sit there, the more you start to develop a feeling of belonging. I’m really not very good at sitting still and doing nothing, I fidget, I want to wander off and look at things. But as I sat, the idea of moving started to feel more and more unnecessary. I could feel myself sinking into the landscape. The drone of traffic from the nearby road faded away. My breathing became deeper, I watched my heart rate (shown on my watch) sink lower, and my thoughts turned to the environment around me.
Now, I could hear the thin, high cry of Buzzards above me; looking up, I could see two of them circling lazily through the sky. I noticed the huge, messy nests at the top of a couple of big Hornbeams. Was that where the birds belonged? Had I displaced them with my presence? Blue Tits chirped stridently from nearby trees, alerting everything in the vicinity to my existence.
Even these alarm calls faded after I sat for a while. Their songs became less strident and more melodious, the repetitive “teacher, teacher, teacher” from a Great Tit was added, making me inwardly chuckle with its accuracy. I gazed at the piles of fallen leaves around me; what was that? Was that a flash of white in the shadow of a tree? What was the red over there under that Ash? I noticed the scatter of feathers, marking the recent demise of an unfortunate Pigeon. Lines of glossy King Alfred’s Cakes trailed along fallen timber, their leathery looking exterior belying their solidity. Whorls of Turkey Tails adorned the older branches, subtle bands of a thousand colours, bordered always with white.
The purply brown of King Alfred’s Cakes (Daldinia concentrica), looking leathery and supple, despite how solid and friable they actually are.Turkey Tail (Trametes versicolor) with its contour lines of colour in subtle greens and browns.
Eventually, I stirred myself as the light was starting to fade, driven to investigate the things I’d noticed from my perch before moving on. The white flash in the leaf litter turned out to be a singleWood Anemone (Anemonoides nemorosa), its leaves not even fully unfurled, and its mass of anthers hanging in the shelter of delicate white petals, traced with translucent designs. The red patch was a battered Scarlet Elf Cup (Sarcoscypha austriaca), its bright red cup looking like so much discarded plastic but actually playing its part in breaking down fallen trees to recycle to nutrients.
A Sparrowhawk started up from the ground as I walked past. It must have either missed or taken its dinner with it as there was no discernable reason why it was on the floor. The swift reddish brown flash of its back was the only sign it had been there.
Wood Anemone (Anemonoides nemorosa) proving that this particular patch of woodland is ancient.Scarlet Elf Cup (Sarcoscypha austriaca), thought in folklore to be Elven tableware.
Heading back to the car, what seemed like an entire Christmas card of Robins serenaded me from the branches as I passed. This might not have been the springtime wander through lush woodland that I’d imagined, but it was an exercise in living in the moment. It’s all too easy to live in a state of anticipation, always straining to move on to the next thing, looking forward to events, thinking only of what’s to come. There’s a great pleasure to be found in stopping to see where you are, in looking at what’s around you, in enjoying the world as it is in this moment. Just being. So next time you’re in the woods, stop, pull up a fallen branch, and sit. Listen to the birdsong, look at the plants, and enjoy. Who knows what you’ll notice.
A round of Robins sang me out of the woods, individual notes and trills blending into an orchestral piece.
“Spring is the time of year when it is summer in the sun and winter in the shade.” – Charles Dickens, ‘Great Expectations’
Looking around my living room this morning, a pride of lions, including a large male and a couple of cubs snoozed in the corner by the French doors, an elephant stood in the doorway, making entering and exiting an exercise in evasive manoeuvres, a warthog stared balefully at me from the top of a pile of recipe books and a (slightly bos-eyed) meerkat kept watch for danger from between the fronds of a spider plant. Yes, I’ve finally finished making and painting all the masks for the production, but it’s beginning to feel alarmingly like I’m living in an Attenborough documentary!
Blackthorn (Prunus spinosa) blossom, scattered like snowflakes throughout the bare hedgerows.
To counteract the cardboard nature, I headed out to visit the real nature that’s on my doorstep. I parked in a muddy lay-by, right next to an unused access gate to the battleground (the army training ground that covers a huge amount of the local area) amd set off along the Peddars Way path thay borders it. The dull thud of gunfire accompanied the majority of my walk, but even taking that into account, the birdsong was loud enough that it was easy to ignore. Robins, Blackbirds, Bluetits, and Great Tits twittered, trilled, and tweeted from the hedgerows. I’m not even joking with that last one; at one point, it truly sounded like one of them was yelling, “tweet!” repeatedly. It seems the birds have absolutely got on board with this whole ‘spring’ thing, despite the solid frosts on several mornings this week.
I told you it’s been raining … this lake is an entirely new addition to the army training ground.
It’s been a soggy couple of weeks in my corner of Norfolk … and we have the extensive puddles to prove it. Roads and pathways are treacherous with standing water and thick, gluey mud. The particular bit of woodland that I was walking through has hundreds of pingos all through it. No, I’m not talking about the cute little penguin who bleeps and bloops his way around the ice, but “glacial lakes or depressions left behind after the last ice age” The word “pingo” is an Inuit word for a hill that has an ice core. As the ice retreated, these icy cores melted, and the hill subsided, leaving a depression that fills up when the water table is high. Which it certainly is at the moment! What this means is that, after any appreciable amount of rain, the woodland suddenly becomes a swamp and gorgeous little lakes and ponds appear, ringed (in summer) with lush vegetation and serenaded by the humming of a thousand dragon and damselflies. Today, they were reflecting the misty grey of the sky and turning the world inside them bleak and monochrome.
I squelched my way along to the NWT Thompson Water reserve. I made my way through the reserve towards the hide next to the actual lake and decided to sit and watch for a while. I’m not a particularly good birdwatcher; I just don’t have the patience to sit still and quiet for any length of time. But I’d like to be, so I try my best. I didn’t do too badly today, and I’m ridiculously proud that I managed to identify a Reed Bunting correctly. I mean, it was a total guess based on the reeds, but I can count it, right? Sadly, the only photo I managed isn’t great because they flittered around in the branches above me and out in the reeds way too quickly to capture and seemed determined to keep their distance and foil my attempts as well.
Terrible photo because these things are quick! One of the Common Reed Buntings (Emberiza Schoenicus) that I managed to spot.
It was lovely to note that so many of the trees were starting to break their buds. I saw Hawthorn, Ash, Elder, and Oak all looking fairly imminent. I love the different colours and shapes of the leaf buds. The Hawthorn buds are an improbable coral pink, which, set against the vibrant green of the emerging leaves, always look slightly ‘unnatural’, despite being anything but.
Improbable, but beautiful … the buds of Hawthorn (Crataegus monogyna) are starting to break.
Having circled through the reserve, I turned my feet back towards the car. This part of my walk runs along the road, but being a back lane, there’s still plenty to see. Having a background in Ecology, I really don’t like Rhododendrons; they’re not native, they are invasive, and they are almost impossible to get rid of. So it made me a little bit happy to discover that a large number of the flower buds had been invaded (infested?) by mould, whose dark fuzz resolved itself under magnification into tiny grey spheres atop equally tiny (less than 1mm long) stalks. I can only assume that the damp weather, interspersed by periodic cold snaps, has taken its toll.
It was the last stretch of road when I was almost back to the car that provided some of the highlights of my day. Although it’s really starting to feel like spring, the Blackthorn blossom had, up until that point, been the sole flower I’d seen. So imagine my utter delight when I found a patch of what I’m pretty sure are Dog Violets (Viola riviniana) in both the standard purple and a gorgeous pale lilac colour. I’m a complete buffoon and didn’t look closely at any of the right bits, so there is a chance that they might be Early Dog Violet (Viola reichenbachiana), but my photos (and my dog-eared copy of Rose’s Wild Flower Key) seem to suggest that the spur behind the flower is too blunt and curved for that to be true. The name ‘dog’ violet is apparently a dig at the common nature of this beautiful flower; it wasn’t as ‘good’ as the Sweet Violet and so was given the epithet ‘dog’. Clearly, whoever thought that up had never come across a carpet of them on a grey March day. I was too blown away by how beautiful they were to be all scathing about them!
The classic Dog Violet in imperial purple livery.A beautiful, pale lilac version of Dog Violet.
My final ‘find’ of the day was a patch of Alexanders (Smyrnium olisatrum) right before the squishy sea of mud on the approach to my car. This chunky Apiaciae is not native to the UK, but was introduced from the Canary Islands, via the Mediterranean by Roman soldiers as a food plant. Its name was originally Parsley of Alexandria, but this was shortened to Alexanders, presumably because the former was a bit too much of a mouthful. Pliny, on the other hand, called it Smyrnium because it apparently smelled like myrrh. The flowers, stems, leaves, roots, and seeds are all edible, reportedly tasting a little like celery. The plant was once eaten widely but was replaced by celery once it became easily available. I used to find this on almost every North Norfolk verge, but see it much less often in the southern part of the county. Norfolk Wildlife Trust say that, as a Mediterranean plant, it struggles with harsh winters, but in the warming climate is broadening its horizons and becoming more widespread.
Alexanders flowers starting to emerge.
Walk done, I headed home, invigorated, and almost ready for the coming week. Spring, it seems, is springing. Now, fingers crossed it doesn’t snow this week and ruin it all!
absolutelynotnormal 