While the tempests of late winter may still linger on darker days, we have finally found ourselves within the raw grasp of spring; for as Charles Dickens notes in Great Expectations, ‘Spring is the time of year when it is summer in the sun and winter in the shade.’ We immerse ourselves in the joy of bright dawns and primroses and it’s easy to forget the cyclical connections forged between other seasons. The blackthorn blossom arrived to nourish hungry bees and moths, but by autumn these flowers will have transformed into plump, mauve sloes ready for the gin jug; now the hedge is speckled with hawthorn petals. Roe deer fawns will be emerging into the sunshine of our forests and farmlands, native to British soil since the Stone Age; their mothers have carried them in their bellies like an unbaked cake through the winter months, ready for a warm welcome in May or June. And while the cuckoo toots about in the Hampshire treetops for her three short months away from Africa, the sweet petals of dog rose glow pink in hedgerows, bleaching white in summer and ripening into sanguine rosehips for voles to chomp in September. It feels lovely to acknowledge waves of energy through the year, drawing us away from the cold and closer to balmy midsummer noons.