The arrival of spring is not an unmitigated joy. The warmth is nice, of course, as are the fresh leaves on the trees and the general sense of rebirth and renewal after a dismal, soaking winter. And maybe, if you live in London, there is very little to complain about. There are delightful parks and squares, lovingly tended by others, in which to lie semi-naked in the sun or otherwise disport yourself. Nature in its wantonness is held at bay without any effort on your part. But here in the countryside of Northamptonshire, spring has its dark and menacing side. The daffodils have been splendid, as were the snowdrops before them; but they are over now, and the nettles are rapidly taking over. Meanwhile, my Jack Russell terrier, Polly, has signalled the start of the new season by killing two baby rabbits and proudly delivering each in turn into my house.
My own initiation into spring came the other night when I was lying in bed and felt something crawling up my arm. It turned out to be a wasp — still sleepy after hibernation, perhaps, because it made no effort to escape when I shook it on to the bed and squashed it to death with my mobile phone. It seemed strange to find a wasp in my bedroom so early in the year, but then (though I know almost nothing about wasps) I don’t think it would have been there in winter. Another sign of spring — and this a pleasant one — was the discovery of a hedgehog in the garden. It was a small hedgehog, lying motionless on the grass but wincing slightly when prodded with a stick. It clearly was alive, because it subsequently vanished and reappeared next day on another bit of grass some 200 yards distant from the first.
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