Springtime is the smell of lanolin and freshly turned earth. It is the cloying scents of blooming broad beans and daffodils. It is the smell of line-dried clothes. It is cut-grass and petrol mowers.
Springtime is the sound of lambs calling to their mothers, and the mothers’ deep, chuckling replies. It is the warbling of magpies before dawn, and the harsh call of spur-winged plovers at night. It is the throbbing rumble of tractors and the barking of sheep dogs.
Springtime is the feel of thick grass between the toes, the sting of nettles on bare legs. It is gritty dirt under fingernails, and sweaty hat brims. It is the buffeting of winds and the snarl of tangled hair afterwards. It is warm sun and cool shade.
Springtime is the bitter cucumber flavour of salad burnet. It is the rich umami of artichokes. It is the earthy taste of asparagus.
And springtime doesn’t end at our physical senses. Spring is the sense of well-being, the sense that all is not yet lost. That magic still lingers, in the rhythm of the honey bee’s wingbeats and the rustle of flight feathers, in the rain of apple blossoms and the quiet feeding of a caterpillar.