We spent the third week of April in Dorset. Before we left Provence the vines were sending out silvery stubby grubs of life. When we returned the grubs had unfurled in to the greenest of leaves, a reminder of the warm rosé-fuelled evenings to come.
The April blossom, which had covered the trees like shaving foam, has disappeared and cherries are on their way. Roadsides are awash with poppies and irises – a living Van Gogh cliche. And after a winter of fried potatoes and the resulting lardy feeling around one's midrift, the markets are a dream for detox-addicts: asparagus, artichoke, the sweetest of peas, rocket (though we pull this weed wild from the stony walls) and first strawberries. Spring has sprung.
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