Last week one of my workmates was saying how lovely it was that spring was finally here: the weather was warming up, the spring bulbs were in bloom and it was still light at 5 pm.
Another colleague insisted that it wasn’t spring yet; that there was still two weeks of winter left.
Nonsense, replied colleague 1. The weather decides when it’s spring. Not the calendar.
I fall into that camp too.
If it feels like spring, looks like spring, behaves like spring, then it’s spring. Who cares what the calendar says?
One of the things I love about spring in Hobart is the circles of daffodils and/or jonquils that are planted at the base of some of the trees in St David’s Park. I don’t know how long they’ve been there, but I think they look wonderful.
I have no doubt that we’ll be shocked by at least one more cold snap (at least!) before the weather really warms up, but for now it’s just beautiful, and begs to be taken advantage of. I wonder if my boss would be open to the idea of having our staff meetings in the park . . .
Further proof that it’s spring is that today we got back home much later than normal, and I went outside to get something that I needed to get dry off the clothesline. I’d hung the washing out last night knowing it wouldn’t be dry when we got home today, because as soon as the sun goes down and the cold sets in, the washing starts to get damp again. Except it hadn’t. It was all totally dry.
It’s an evening you might almost describe as ‘warm’, with clear skies and a great view of the stars.
A beautiful night.
A beautiful spring night.