The sun is out and, instead of its once empty light shining coldly on us in the UK, there’s warmth bleeding through, it’s been coming for a week or two now, but today, in late March, that warmth is more than just a slice, it’s becoming more enveloping, more satisfying. Summer is coming our way and I welcome it with open arms.
Grey is replaced by blue, and fluffy white clouds instead of blankets of grey. Branches on the trees are beginning to disappear under a translucent cloak of palest green. Stop, and silence is masked not by the roar of the cold wind of winter, but the chirping, chattering and full-on song of birds, gloriously proclaiming to the world that life, so long suspended, has started again. Instead of hanging limply in spare rooms or spinning hotly in kitchens, laundry sways on the lines in gardens country wide. Fool hardy Englishmen anticipate summer by donning shorts and parading their flabby, pasty legs for all to see. Secretly they’re freezing; it’s not yet that warm.
Then there’s the scrape and squeal of up and over garage doors, the smell of leather evoking last summer’s glories, wafts of petrol and oil, the cough of electric starters and the blip of engines. Dark visors, sun speckles on dry roads, rolling from bend to bend, hedgerow a blur of brown and green. Too much speed, expensive petrol. Thrills. Mates, drinks and laughs in the sunshine.
Time for a ride then.