Catkins

A still, grey afternoon - the sun never made it to our corner of Argyll, though we could see it further east - with the thermometer reading 13ºC as we bashed up the Glen Massan road. And there, among the shattered rhododendrons and of some roadside clearance, were the catkins, yellow and furry-looking on the hitherto dead branches on which some buds are beginning to appear.

Spring, I think, is almost here. And I bet the bird that was singing at 1am last night thinks so too ...