The gravelly stream bed sparkles in the morning sun.  This temporary stream flows under the gate and down to the old railway track, a trickling reminder of yesterday’s rain.

The water has cleaned a channel through the layers of mud and leaf mulch built up over this winter. I stand in its path and watch as my boots are washed clean, and smile at the corny symbolism.

Up the path to where the woods meet the brow of the hill, fruit tree relics from the Victorian gardens are in blossom. I don’t know what they are – presumably pear or cherries – but I’m delighted to see the wind hasn’t done too much damage. I make a mental note to identify these trees this year.

Either way, for such delicate looking flowers they’re remarkably resilient.