Spring starts with a hard frost and a bright sunshiney day. Two on the bounce. Maybe it’ll be a good year after all. I get up, make the coffee and plot a route for a long run. I managed to get out to Hinksey Nature Reserve before I came down with the cold. No reason not to go again, and a bit further up the hill. The air is chilled, especially so in the shade. It’s quiet. I pick up the river and chase a rowing team, and another runner. Then I’m off towards the lake, where people are swimming. It still looks slightly appealing. Over the bridge, through the village, over the A34, and up the hill. There’s nobody here this time so I cruise through, listening to the sweep of birdsong and alarm calls. I break out the back and continue plugging up to the woodland at the summit. I have to stop to check where I’m going at a junction. I come down like a bad skier on the wet mud behind a house. The still frozen rolls in Happy Valley have me picturing broken ankles. Never sure which is worse, but both are fun, and keep it interesting at least. By the time I get back to the bottom it’s warm. Even more people are in the lake. I join a stream of joggers on the river for a brief race. Then I turn into Aston’s Eyot before home.

Rachael’s at the gym. I put the oven on, stretch, have another coffee, have a bacon, hash brown and egg sandwich. I do the dishes, I put the kettle on. Rachael comes home just as the teas brewed. She spends the rest of the day in the garden. I join intermittently. Moving sweet peas into bigger propagators. I plant beetroot seeds. I think about how much space I have, how much I can grow, whether any of last year’s seed will actually germinate. Rachel’s bird seed sunflowers emerge quickly by the warmth of the radiator and sunny days on a window ledge have them spitting out a second set of leaves in no time. Everything else is taking a little more time. I’m anxious of course. Is it too wet, too warm, too dark, too anything? Most likely it’s me, too impatient. The early field beans have broken through the seed trays. Only two of the peas sprout. I’m starting to think the garlic I overwintered might be looking good. What next? And when? Time begins to slip through the fingers.

Snowdrifts of blackthorn blossom build on the motorway verge. The back seats of Will’s Mercedes are a welcome break from the train. More convenient too. We’re on our way to Yorkshire with some of the gang, to spend a weekend or less at Mark and Sarah’s place. All of us in the car comment on how flat it is, how flat it was last time, how big the sky is before we pull into the village. They have done exactly what they wanted, bought a house big enough for everyone to come and stay. We sit briefly in the garden, sipping on the first beers, soaking up the last of the sun. The dropping air temperature, and the lure of a 6 Nations match draws us inside. Board, and card games come out. Beer continues to flow. Mark invites us back outside, and then inside to the barbecue hut that came with a house. We’ve hardly seen Sarah, who’s been busying away on salads and desserts. Mark has the easy job, making sure the burgers and chicken are cooked through. It’s a cosy, and lovely way to spend an evening.

Perhaps it’s only the next weekend, or maybe the one after. After the infinite January, the days and weeks are already blurring into one. We’re off again, riding the train to Sheffield for a proper catch up with old mate Jon and Caroline. They’ve also joined the almost complete set of my friends to have bought a house We’d only heard good things regarding their entertaining space extending out from the kitchen. We are of course, suitably impressed. We have a late night on the beers, chatting innocently about the revolution we need to make a better world. Come the morning we’re on the road for less than 10 minutes before we enter the Peak District. I could get used to this. The planned route takes us up towards the Derwent reservoirs and the same. Things I’ve only seen before on the internet. Deep, black water nestles in the valley, hiding a village. The dam wall is impressive, even as it is now, dry. Rain, a distant memory but threatened in the forecast. We climb up the side of the wall and I start to realise the “hills” I’ve gotten used to in Oxford don’t qualify. We’re lucky at least to have a long flat stretch along the reservoirs edge before our next climb. Rachael and I talk about the bird song, who’s that, or who do we think it is. Jon doesn’t know this about me, but I’ve never thought about keeping it a secret. Perhaps it’s only now I’m more open, interested in paying attention. Mostly, I think I might see something new.

We push up on to the tops to find big, hazy views. The sky no different to before, only now we’re closer to it. I can see rain in the distance, heading straight for us and us for it. We might stay dry until lunch. We reach the summit of Lost Lad on the north end of Derwent Edge and can see the  castle escarpments of tors along the ridge. That’ll be where we’re going. We stop, nestled beneath an outcrop for cheese and pickle sandwich and a flask of tea. I’m starting to think hot drinks taste better outside. Edith, our four legged companion, treats herself to some unidentified poo for her own lunch. We listen out for the skylarks, talk of curlews and then to my surprise we see black grouse amongst the heather. At a distance but close enough to catch their red eyebrows. They’ve been reintroduced and I consider us lucky to see them. It’s a quick drop back to the waters edge, where we read a single sign about the lost village and in the shallows spot a found toad. Rain breaks just as we’re nearing the carpark. Not close enough to escape completely but it hardly matters how wet we get when the next stop is a warm house.

We’re back at home, with the rest of the week off work. Mum and Dad are booked in for a day trip. Rachael and I put together a rough itinerary. Tea or coffee in the garden before a walk around Christchurch meadow. We drift across the city centre, passing through the Covered Market, ticking off sights. Across town, through Jericho and into the Old Bookbinders for lunch. The pale ale they have on tap tastes like stale washing up water, but the food is good. We amble back, with Rachael getting us all access into Worcester College for a look around at what life might be like if anyone if us got the grades, had the ambition to makes something of our lives. The chapel is interesting too, the ends of benches carved with animals, unexpected are the turtle and blue whale. We walk around the Radcliffe Camera and head up the tower of the University Church. Only from the top do I realise Rachael has taken me here before. That feels like a long, long time ago now. We hang around at the top, taking in the views. Dad, unprompted, points to one of the grotesques and say’s “look it’s your sister,” I don’t hesitate to do an impression. “Wahh I can’t eat cheese, I’m lactose intolerant.” The narrow staircase is less fun going down but we managed to push those coming up into the nooks, or back the way they’ve come. By now, we’ve all got a tea thirst on and return to the flat.