Sun streams through net curtains casting shapes and shadows on the floor. Noise builds in the eves, the shrubs and the crevices where small winged lodgers winter and build nests. Hardy crocus bulbs burst through trampled ground to dust the village green in patches of purple and white.

I feel light, the shadow of winter lifted. My mind fills with seed plans and long walks and toes dipped in rivers. I wonder where I stowed the tent, the flask and stove. Maps find their way into my fingers and are unfolded, carpeting the room with lines and contours and legends. My head fights the feeling. There was a frost just yesterday and the wood store is still stocked, enough fuel for another month at least.

A sound brings me back to the room, four sandstone walls filled with light and lined with books. There’s a bumble bee at my window. She tips and taps and wants to come in. I lean across and stare through the single pane of glass. She’s as big as a cherry & hooped in yellow and black. Needle fine hairs and translucent wings beating faster than my heart ever should. She doesn't know that she shouldn't be here yet. It isn't her fault.

I lean back in my chair and allow myself the sun and its warmth in this moment. One for which I’m equally grateful and sad. As life changes, we adapt and grow. I fish out a teaspoon from the kitchen drawer and make my first sugar syrup of the year. It’s on the windowsill now, a tonic for passing visitors in need of a helping hand.

This year, I’ll make a plan. One that is kind and gentle. I’ll be mindful of my footprint and the impact it may have. I’ll tread softly, only take what I need and give back as much as I possibly can. This flash of spring in winter is a wake-up call. One I needed more than I knew.

I fill the coffee pot each day, staring outside while it bubbles and steams on the stove. The garden is overgrown, life pushing its way through mesh and bark and turf. Moss holds the lawn together and prickly grasses, long and wispy stand tall leaning only in the rain. Upturned pots and an abandoned hanging basket are notes, a memory of time passing. Another year of plans put aside as life takes over. A sudden flurry reminds me that the garden is not only for me.

Today is harvest lunch, a host of winged visitors gleaming under autumn sun gathering to take their pick. Two rowan trees lean, naked now but for soft, overripe berries which drop with the faintest breath of wind. Tiny flashes of yellow dart through the long grass, blue tits searching for the ruby morsels. A tall, dark ivy strangles one of the rowans, reaching high above its branches, it’s thick foliage the perfect spot for a blackbird family to wait its turn. Here they nested in summer, losing little ones to predators but still they reap the benefits of the ivy’s grip. High up, two crows sit watch, holding court and flapping their wings once in a while to remind everyone of their presence. A flash of red against cornflower blue sky is a bullfinch, now two, dipping in and out swiftly to grab berries from under the nose of a plump thrush. Then a swoop of starlings, young, boisterous, sends everyone into the air. Branches sway and more berries drop. In a moment, only the crows remain, steadfast. Lunch is over for today.

Yesterday, under dull skies, the garden was bleak, a burden, another missed opportunity. Today, it is a garden of Eden, a safe place where all comers take their turn. There is plenty to go around. So I’ll leave the lawnmower in the outhouse, put away my gardening gloves. For a while at least. Until the feast is over and each feathered creature has had their fill.

A lane which winds, narrow, flanked by hedgerows. The incline steep at first, an old brewery tops the hill. Another twist, a field comes into view. Carried across the wind the sound of livestock, calling. The road levels out and opens up. Turn left or right at the fork. Onward to the top road, where brambles tangled tight with hawthorn line the stream, a gully trapping precious jewelled fruit between water and eager hands. Out of reach, until a branch is found, turned at one end. The perfect tool. Grasping now, he holds my belt while I stretch. A little further, my toe dips into the water. One sharp tug and the branch is freed. Scarlet berries hang over my head, tantalising, asking to be picked. I fill my basket. Hawthorns nestle with blackberries and sloes, nettle leaves for soothing tea and elderberries to pair with tart apples from the walled garden. Life is good now. A simple thing, a piece of fruit picked by a cold hand. Tossed into a woven basket and carried thus, to be splashed and sorted, cooled or pressed, warmed then sieved. These actions once alien are now natural. But time is passing. Nights draw in and occasions for collecting grow slim. A freezer drawer sits crammed with packages marked cooked, jam, gin, crumble. Until next year, when the sun shines long and rain feeds the hedgerows. I’ll see you then in the lane, basket in hand.

Two tots tumble across the green scattering stacks of crisp amber leaves. The horse chestnut
shelters grandad as they play, a perfect leaning post.

Stiff like starfish they run, bundled in playsuits, hats & wellington boots. Hunting for treasure, squeals echo across the square as they succeed. A dog pricks its ears.

Deep brown conkers clatter together in pockets. At home, they will sit on a shelf until dry, dull, a memory of autumn.