Along the hedge in the garden or down in the woods near the stream, where the grass has given way to black, bare soil, the green spears of the snowdrops are pushing up. They’re unfurling their white skirts to reveal green and yellow petticoats underneath. Behind them come brighter flashes of crocuses. Flame cups of orange and purple, saffron fire at their centre. Woodland primroses circle tree trunks and lean outward to the dappled winter sun. The boisterous daffodil trumpets aren’t far off, their grey-green stems already marking territory. No leaves on the trees, but blossom buds. Tight white on the blackthorn bushes, frost-hardy and unyielding. The darkest evenings are behind us; each day the twilight lingers a little longer. And at sunrise, in the cold silver mornings before the birds have the energy to sing out their dawn chorus, you might still hear the gutsy little robin, singing ownership of his garden, and warning his mate of the cat that comes pacing through the fallen leaves.