Seems our celebrating the arrival of spring over the weekend was a few days premature – yes, the weather is still full-bore spring, but today is the official first day of the season.
So what does it all mean?
To be honest, for my first quarter-century or so, I didn’t really have much of an idea about it – apart of course what we read in books and saw on TV. Winter in Bulawayo was definitely chilly, but the transition to summer seemed to happen overnight, usually with a few thunderstorms, and then the temperatures would climb steadily to November, or ‘suicide month’ as it was laughingly called, which those in charge deemed was a good time for kids to write their annual exams.
Then, years later, having grown weary of academia, it was time to head to the northern hemisphere to discover what all the fuss was about. I touched down in mid-September, when the trees were already turning orange and gold, and spent the first winter as an illegal alien, working on a variety of freezing, damp grubby building sites and in related unskilled manual roles. In the absence of any experience to the contrary, it just seemed like the UK was always like that.
Then came spring. Even in the grittier parts of London, it was a transformative experience. The budding leaves, the warming breezes, the clearing of the low grey cloud ceiling overhead – the psychological boost was unexpected and very welcome. And there was a physical transformation as well – it was as if everyone received a transfusion of energy: you needed less sleep, sprang up in the morning with a grin on your lips, a song in your heart, and thoughts that turned to love.
Even if it was still cold now and then – the old saying was ‘cast never a clout until May is out’ (don’t strip off your scarves etc until the end of May) – girls would suddenly shed their winter coats and appear bare-legged and -midriffed, braving the goosepimples and chilblains in the pursuit of summery modishness.
On those rare sunny days, blokes would appear in shorts, blinding passers-by with the reflected glory of their translucent fishbelly legs. Even in the City, where the engines of Mammon demanded that all be formally suited, at lunchtime accountants and analysts would whip off tie and shirt in Finsbury Circus and broil their pigeon chests to a vivid lobster red.
Seriously, though, spring has a number of serious implications for us here at Corner Cottage. Now we need to get the bulk of our planting done, with the exception of perhaps tomatoes, which are vulnerable to late frosts. Roses need to be pruned, flowers deadheaded (nothing to do with Jerry Garcia and the boys), trees and shrubs fertilised, and of course, weeds attacked with grim intent before they get out of hand with all this growing going on.
With some excitement I noted that the two Weeping Cherry trees I’d planted in July had started budding – the first indication that I hadn’t killed them. I’d been worried, lying awake at night fretting that they were lonely, maybe too cold, or thirsty. Was the soil too acidic? Had I pruned them too stringently? Well, apparently not – the tips of their branches are straining to bursting with burgeoning life. It’s kind of miraculous.
And there’s a bird feeder that urgently requires finishing, deploying and provisioning.
Even so, as our Judeo-Christian culture has taught us, just as every rose has its thorn, for every Eden there must be a serpent. Today’s TV news reminded us cheerily that the beginning of spring is also the beginning of snake season. Wonderful news – there’s nothing like a cold-blooded lethal reptile to remind everyone of the joys of life.
So while the grip of COVID-19 clenches tightly around the lives and liberty of people everywhere – a kind of winter in itself – at least in the southern hemisphere we have summer to look forward to. Maybe that’s because it’s not just the same old season of renewal that comes around year after year, but a real, tangible renewal as we get to grips with life in this new country.
