Spring doesn’t arrive in England all at once. It doesn’t announce itself loudly or insist on being noticed. There’s no sudden shift, no clear line between what was and what is. Instead, it comes in quietly, almost cautiously, as if it’s unsure whether it’s welcome yet. One day, it is still winter in every sense that matters. The sky sits low and grey, the air carries that familiar edge, and everything feels paused, suspended in something that hasn’t quite ended. And then, without ceremony, something small changes. It’s lighter. Not brighter, not warm, but lighter. The kind of light that stretches the afternoon just a little further than expected. The kind that makes you look up, almost instinctively, as if something has shifted behind the scenes without asking for attention. It doesn’t transform the day. It simply alters it. And that’s how it begins. You notice it in fragments. A tree that was bare the day before now carries the faintest hint of green, so subtle you question whether it...