Spring? It's not, in this country anyway, a real season at all. It's a state of mind, of expectancy. A hope. A kind of false interlude between winter and what summer we get, once in a generation. A state of deception, almost, to keep our spirit's up through some of the cruelest months. Yes, the days do get longer, but the next months are always the worst part of winter, to some extent because we are already a bit worn down.
Seasonal Affective Disorder. Is that what they call it. SAD. February, wet. March, cold, biting winds. April, treacherous and dicey, and May, not always that much better.
Yes, of course, St Brigid's Day, February 1st is the first of Spring. There is a reminder of hardier times in that. Maire Mac Neill in her monumental book, The Festival of Lughnasa, writes "St Brigid's Eve was happy in the re awakening of nature and the recommencement of activity on the farm, but it had its anxieties as to the state of the family provender." Today spring is more spring in the heart, ethereal, not for real. You do have to admit that some things are on the move. Snowdrops late. Daffodils pushing up, say three inches. Celandines in the woods, says a visitor. Flowering currant bursting its buds invasive stuff. Lots of catkins.
Closer to the heart or the stomach is this you pull the winter debris off the top of some of the herb pots and, yes, never lets you down the chives are already pushing up, an inch high at least. A bit yellow from being covered, perhaps, but that will clear to the lovely brilliant green.
Sure, you can buy chives and other herbs in plastic boxes in the shops. Country Fresh Herbs, it says on the label. In smaller print you read country of origin varies. Nothing wrong with that, of course. So much of the fruit eaten today comes from the farthest corners of the world. Vegetables too.
But stuff from the pot out side your back door is some how more reassuring. Tastes fresher.
Then a small voice says What about February 15th? At last. There we have it. On February 15th in this eastern part, you may cast your, line on the river and, with luck, have grilled trout for your tea, an hour or two later. That's spring.