Rain and fog. February is the grimmest month. Yet feeling my way through the soupy air on my dog-walk this morning I could hear lots of birdsong; and underfoot I nearly trampled a lone primrose. Signs of spring, far too early, and with no sense that the real spring could be near. The countryside is waterlogged and spongy, and water comes out when you press down with your foot on the saturated earth. Our sinkhole-mudslide has got slightly larger — a metre of earth including another piece of our lavender hedge has broken off and tumbled into the abyss of gloopy mud.
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