Hello spring is that really you?

There is something quietly miraculous about the moment you realise that spring has truly arrived. Here in Dorset, that shift feels especially sweet. One day the air still carries winter’s bite, and the next it is softened by birdsong, pale blue skies, and that unmistakable scent of warming earth.

Over the past week, I’ve found myself lingering outside just a little longer each morning, cup of coffee in hand, sitting on the back step noticing the tiny signs of change. The garden is beginning to stir, buds are bravely unfurling, I can see some hints of pink on the cherry tree, tight buds but they are there. There's a gentleness to the light that simply wasn’t there a month ago. After what has felt like a very long winter, it is such a relief to feel the sun on my face without shivering.

I’m especially excited because this is the time of year when plans begin to take shape in my little cottage garden space. I’ve been poring over seed catalogues and sketching out ideas for new flowers to plant — a few cheerful cosmos perhaps as they are not only beautiful in the garden but great for cutting, some fragrant sweet peas climbing along the fence, and defiantly a drift of soft pastel dahlias to carry colour through late summer. I'm absolutely 100% in my dahlia era right now!

There’s something so hopeful about choosing new flowers. It feels like writing a promise to the months ahead. I want to make the cottage garden space taller this year so I have now planted some double hollyhock seed in the greenhouse in hope that this will work along side some larkspur and lupins.

Even more thrilling is that I’ve finally started some vegetable seeds in the greenhouse at the allotment. There is a particular kind of joy in that first tray of neatly sown seeds, labels tucked carefully into the soil, compost still dark and damp. Every visit becomes a treasure hunt, peering closely in anticipation of the first tiny green shoots pushing through. It never fails to amaze me how something so small can hold so much promise.

Today I noticed that my onion seeds are starting to peep through. I smiled to myself, as every year this still gives me joy. I never get bored of waiting in anticipation for the first signs of new life. I have in the past bought onion sets, but with the dry summers the onions are prone to bolting, so I am trying to start growing from seed as I am told that they are less likely to bolt,....so watch this space!

The greenhouse has already begun to warm up beautifully in the midday sun. Stepping inside feels like entering another season altogether — a pocket of early summer, filled with the earthy scent of compost and the quiet industry of growth. It makes me giddy with excitement for what’s to come.

The wildlife in the cottage garden seems to sense the shift too. I’ve been watching robins busily building their nest in the Clematis Armandi on the garage wall, darting back and forth with determined purpose, struggling with surprisingly big dried leaves. while a pair of blue tits have been showing great interest in one of the bird boxes. I have put some alpaca fleece that had set aside to spin, out in a bird nut cage and its hanging in the cherry tree. The blue tits have been tugging great big tufts of it out which has been lovely to watch. There's something so comforting about seeing them claim their little corners of the garden, preparing for the season ahead just as I am.

And then there are the walks. Oh, the walks. Dorset in the spring sunshine is hard to beat. The thought of wandering through the countryside with the warmth of the sun on my back fills me with happiness. Soon the fields will be glowing with fresh green, lambs will be dotting the hillsides, and every lane will seem edged with frothy white blossom.

Spring always feels like a second chance — a gentle nudge to step outside, breathe deeply, and begin again. After months of hunkering down indoors, watching the rain run down the windows, and oh we have had SO much rain! I can feel my energy returning with the light. There is digging and tiding to be done, seeds to nurture, birds to quietly observe, and miles of beautiful countryside waiting to be explored.

For now, I’m simply grateful. Grateful for longer days, for the promise held in a seed tray, for the soft flutter of wings in the garden, and for the simple, wonderful feeling that spring has finally arrived.

Sue