This was ground elder once. Nothing but ground elder, as far as I could see in any direction.

It is something else now.

Old roses in galvanised tubs, just breaking into leaf. Chives already flowering, always first, always slightly ahead of themselves. Something white and lacy coming up through the beds that I cannot entirely name, which feels right for a garden that is still revealing itself. Rhubarb at the edges, large and slightly absurd and entirely serious about itself….

Late March comes with a yearning to throw open the doors and let the day in. The birds are singing. The garden is springing to life. The instinct is to fill small vases with whatever the garden is offering and welcome in the season….

There is no single moment when winter ends. It retreats gradually, almost reluctantly, leaving behind habits that take a little longer to follow.

The candlesticks come off the mantelpiece first. Not stored away — simply replaced, for now, by whatever the garden or the hedgerow is offering. A jar of narcissus. A stem or two of hellebore, nodding…