On trees

Suddenly - or so it seems - the trees are in leaf.  Last week, the Cambridge spring seemed so much further ahead of ours, because the trees there were in leaf.  Yesterday I walked the dog early in the morning and noticed, first, the copper beech in the middle of park was a wonderful light aubergine of first leafiness, and then that the  horse chestnuts were heavy with limp hands.  Limes are dotted with startling colour; and even the larches – the Miss Haversham of trees, and my absolute favourite – have a haze of colour flowing down each elegant branch. 

At home, Rangoon’s camellia has been in flower for a week or so (now beginning to look a little blowsy),  while a tiny azalea I found after cutting back a rosemary bush, seared by the snow, has miniscule buds in the centre of each of its bowls of leaves, and the magnolia tree in the garden next door is an extravagance of rich creaminess.  Our rhus has numerous large swellings along each furry branch – a relief because, for a long time after I’d pruned it, it threatened to be no more than a very big stick in a very big navy blue pot.

A gean on the main road from town is heavy with blossom.  It's mostly pink but has a skewed chevron in a different colour running from the centre and down one side. The heavy asymmetric shock of white cutting through the pink is like the fringe of some of the more exotic gamin hairstyles seen on campus at the moment.

Every year, vicious cold and relentless darkness in January and February lead me to plan to move south; but as soon as the trees leaf, I  become very happy to live in Scotland for ever.