It's cold. This morning there is hoar frost covering every surface. It takes me twice as long to walk to the shop because I keep stopping photograph it all. Now I am wrapped in a shawl with a warm laptop on my knees. Tom has brought me a double choc chip cookie back from work (Subway) and it's not half bad. There is coconut and sweet potato soup on the stove for lunch and a bright bunch of Cornish daffodils in a Cornishware jug on my windowsill and I think I like this time of year best of all.
But, wait, what about when it begins to get warmer, that day when the sun feels warm on your face after weeks of damp and cold, when the air is soft and scented with the first spring flowers? Surely that's the best time of the year? Or is it some weeks later when everything is suddenly the greenest it has ever been and you can practically hear it growing, and the woods are filled with bluebells. Or the long days of summer when all the windows are open and the kitchen is full of scarlet berries being turned into jam. Or late summer when the holidays are over and there are new beginnings, a welcome return to routine and the blackberries are ready to be picked for a crumble. Or is it later still when the apples and quinces are ready, pumpkins and squashes appear and the days shorten and chill. Or when fires are lit and you stir the pudding and catch a glimpse of sparkle just around the corner?
What I love about our wonderful, varied, ever-changing year is everything.