The skies over Totnes are heavy and grey. The clouds move perceptibly west, and the top branches of the young plane trees between the flat and the town below wave gently, their few remaining seed balls dancing. In one a crow sits, hunched and heraldic. Gulls wheel endlessly over the houses on the other side of the valley, riding the weak thermals the buildings send up into the chill February air.
Down in the town a bare ribes bush near the church was coming into bloom, and I saw two etoliated purple crocuses in our front garden as I left the house to catch the train west. Yet a day as dim as today, and with such a bitter wind, feels further away from spring than snowfall in January ever did.