Spring has almost sprung, and the sap is rising in Fortress Balham. Long suffering Dilly has slipped into spring-cleaning mode, frantically painting the turrets and wallpapering the ramparts, whilst making sporadic raids on e-bay to order brightly coloured hawaiian shirts.
And I have seen several bumblebees. But no butterflies, yet.
This started me thinking about what actually does signify the start of spring for me. I'd always assumed it was the vivid yellow flash of the brimstone butterfly (For the trivia geeks out there, this species is arguably where the butter-fly gets its name. Geddit?) But the brimstone butterfly can be seen as early as February, crawling out of hibernation during the first sunny spell of the year. And February is most definitely winter. So it isn't that, on reflection.
The Crocus could be a contender, but then again, I tend to think of that as a cultivated plant. So I don't think it can really count.
No, when I really think about it, the real signifier that spring is in the air is the explosion onto the scene of the great British bluebell (as opposed to the Spanish one that is hybridising its way into taking over, sadly).
In the next few weeks some lucky woods will turn blue and purple as these charismatic flowers open up and carpet the ground.
And I shall make it my business to get out there and admire them. Because when the bluebells open, the natural history types put down their reference books and their wildlife holiday brochures, pull on their wellies and come out of hibernation. And that, I now realise, is the true sign of spring.
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