To ease us through February, the last weeks of winter, we seek out the delicate snowdrops, a whisper that speaks of the return of spring. Packing up some leftover Bakewell Hearts, we wander the woods and paths of the garden, the snowdrops’ drooping white heads bobbing gently as we pass, like an elfin curtsey.
Looking back, I see that we did precisely the same last year. The photographs that I have taken on each occasion are the same, and yet, in tiny ways also different. Within those minute differences are contained the passage of our years.