I disturbed a spider nursery today. Such a casual act as I snipped an arm of ivy, and suddenly the delicate, silvery skeins of silk floated in the breeze. But within minutes the tiny spiders calmly and methodically rallied and reassembled like almost nothing had happened.

An hour after the dawn chorus brings the hungry, clamorous rooks. Angry that the bird table hasn’t yet been replenished, they hurl moss off the tiles like insults.  At least this is how it sounds as they search the roof for insects with their clever beaks.

You know how it is when you try and put yourself in another’s shoes for a while. Like how it must be under a tent in the rain at the Isle of Wight festival. Or in a beautifully constructed nest with four other baby corn buntings behind tufts of dense grass, red campion and Queen Anne’s lace.

There’s such a profusion of purple hues this time of year. From the pale lilac of ground ivy and the vibrant magenta of the sweet little vetch, to the eggplant shades of  flowering nettles and grasses. I always did consider it a pretty wild colour.

This acre of rough but sheltered ground is never just ordinary. Young foxes (unaware of being observed) relax their guard here on sunny winter days. But today, the imperial coloured orchids have turned the duckling into a swan.

A miniature companion shadowed me as I pulled out straying clumps of grass, busily hoovering up grubs from the disturbed ground. Admirably, he could call to his hungry, hiding baby even with his mouth full.

For some it’s a necessity, a little taste of heaven, an energizing sliver of freedom. But for others, to get away from it all would seem like a cruel punishment.

If the Fates had selected me as an unlikely deity, amongst the many actions I’d outlaw would be domesticated cats (mine included) catching slow worms for fun. The clue is in their very name. So silkily smooth and sweet faced, supremely ill matched quarry for a seasoned feline hunter.

Mare’s tails have that ability to look both futuristic and prehistoric simultaneously. They also pull apart in segments that closely resemble a chimney sweep’s brush. You can’t completely hate a plant like that.

The great delay of spring and early summer is running over itself to catch up. The nourishing week of sun following showers has precipitated plants into a tumbling, adolescent growth spurt.