Mothering Sunday was like Easters of old.
Warm sunshine, a slightly cold breeze and Dorset’s beaches packed to the gunnels. They say that on the seafront at Lyme Regis it hit 17 degrees.
In the hinterland, our beautiful hinterland, it wasn’t quite so busy. You could escape the masses by shooting off up a footpath and being alone with your thoughts and with your dog. Or I could, anyway.
Twice a day I walk past The Sleepy Hollow tree, with roots which have wound their way into real life via an Arthur Rackham painting and a film by Tim Burton. It’s bursting to come alive.
In the gardens, the daffodils are making way for tulips, peeping out of tubs, pots and borders. Wallflowers begin their glorious ascent into the most wonderful flower in the whole wide world, with a perfume like no other.
The grass in the fields is looking glossy, spring lambs are looking wary and the kiosks down at West Bay are looking to spruce themselves up in time for the season. It won’t be long now until the boats go into the harbour and men mess about in them.
Hope. It’s what comes this time each year. And it’s what we need right now.