April: green velvet, and the secret broadcasts of daffodils

There was, and there still is, a bit of an arty trend for desaturating greens and yellows in photographs. I’ve done it myself; still do sometimes. Verdancy is greyed out a bit, made more glaucous. Bright, splashy golds and saffrons toned down. But I’m starting to like yellow flowers more and more.

To mark the first of April, I took a little walk up the lane. The Teen stayed home, snacking and screening. Which was fine by me: walking alone is something of a self care ritual anyway, one I should do more often.

The lane we live on is high, narrow and winding. As you progress along it, the houses and farms become fewer and further between. Eventually, there’s a steep turn downwards which eventually - after a mile or two of woods and fields - loops back to a slightly wider and busier road.

If you don’t take that downward turn, you find yourself on a footpath. That’s where I usually go. It’s quiet and open, with moors up on the left and the valley dropping to the right.

But the first thing that caught my eye on leaving the house was the daffodils. Bright constellations of them at the opening of a farm track. Most were huge, sturdy-looking specimens but there were some more delicate ones mixed in amongst them, with paler petals and deep apricot-coloured trumpets.

The giants reminded me of gramophone horns. I wondered if they were actually broadcasting sounds, audible only to the birds and insects. A springtime transmission: weather forecasts, sunrise and sunset times, moon phases. The frequency is a secret one only accessible to those with feathers, or antennae, or wings.

As I walked, green and yellow seemed to be the colour theme. Full saturation. Those daffodils fizzing with golden intensity, the odd sulphur-bright dandelion opening. The moss blanketing the walls was a vibrant shade of chartreuse, velvety waves seemingly spilling over the stone then stopping mid-flow, like lava.

The brambles are putting out new leaves. Still so tender they’re almost translucent: waxed paper cutouts with serrated edges.

I often talk about the ‘blue haze’ of spring. Barely visible - to the point that you wonder if you’re imagining its presence - it’s when the air suddenly feels alive, filled with tiny dancing particles. Its companion the green haze isn’t here quite yet; at least, not from a distance. But a mist of emerald is beginning to appear. Buds and tendrils emerging, unfurling.

The goldfinches were busy. Blackbirds surveyed me with yellow-ringed eyes. A pheasant strutted about in the heather, plumage striking against the sepia tangle of bare wood.

It was a good day to be out, high on the hill. There was nobody else close by, although I could hear voices way off in the distance. Walkers on the moor. It never fails to surprise me how clearly you can pick up on conversations carried on the wind, even from a long way away.

Back home, the garden’s almost fully awake. Our little fruit trees are on the cusp of bursting into blossom. One - I’m unsure whether it’s the plum, pear or apple - is further ahead than the others. But the magnolia ‘Susan’ is still reluctant to join the party. A cottage down the lane has one which, admittedly, is towering in comparison to ours, but is nonetheless covered with envy inducing magenta blooms the size of teacups.

Yesterday morning I saw my first bluebells. I was on my way to work, where the road cuts through trees. There are wooded banks carpeted with all kinds of growing things: ivy, foxglove rosettes, celandines with their shiny enamelled petals. But the first bluebells are always special. They herald the beginning of the floral season which (for me, at least) culminates in May.

By ‘floral’, I’m talking about wildflowers mostly. Hawthorn blossom, cow parsley, red campion, wood anemones. I’m going to walk down into the woods over the (supposedly stormy) weekend. It’s a bit of a local destination for bluebell lovers.

We had to go out this morning, to buy some treats for Easter. Hot cross buns, chocolate eggs. But we stocked up on vegetables, too: cavalo nero, sprouting broccoli, leeks, carrots. We also have red and white cabbages, salad leaves, parsnips and a turnip (which I’m longing to carve into a ghoulish lantern, but that’s an October pursuit).

The drive - we took the back roads - took us through little clusters of houses and farms, the verges dancing with daffodils and clumps of primroses. It was wet and windy but the flowers aren’t deterred from doing their thing.

Our garden euphorbia is an eruption of acid green. Tiny violets are springing up in unexpected places. The Physocarpus ‘Magic Ball’ is glowing, each new leaf a pale, flickering flame.

I bought two bunches of daffodils for the kitchen table. Small, elegant cream flower heads with egg yolk yellow centres. They’re sitting in a humble stoneware jar, having arranged themselves as they fell, and they’re the nicest Easter gift to myself I could possibly want.

We’ll be staying away from town for the long weekend. It’ll be teeming with visitors. There’s still a bite to the air, and the clouds are heavy with rain. Walks, books, good food, a film or two… that’s more than enough to keep us content.

I might take Joe into Leeds on the train next week. But I’ll plan that closer to the time. For now, it’s time to rest and enjoy a few quiet days.

Thank you for reading.

Sarah.