The dogs and I have had a good walk this morning, and the countryside is greening up nicely.
The daffodil season can't last long enough for me. I love them. I am reliably informed that as a very small child I picked the heads off every plant in the garden, to present to my mother. That didn't go down too well.
Then, later in life, as a young teenager, with little money in her pocket, my father would take me to two places where I knew wild daffodils grew and I would pick Mum a bunch for her birthday on 27 April.
These days I spend the daffodil days rescuing bunches of long-harvested buds from a lingering death in supermarkets, buying them for knockdown prices. I also collect up the ragged and wilting blooms which get picked or kicked and strewn along pathways by young hooligans, who don't seem to appreciate that these plants have stalwartly followed their calling to emerge from underground at the end of winter, and eventually produce a proud and joyous flower, which heralds the arrival of a new springtime. Over several weeks I have a raggle taggle collection of daffodils lined up on my kitchen worktop, where I hope they know they have been appreciated and enjoyed after all.