Tunstall Valley, Weardale: It is tempting to believe that this pastel profusion is due to the arrival of a single moth last spring

At last, meteorological spring is almost within touching distance. For most of February I’ve found myself searching for reassurance that it’s on the way; the first snowdrop, recklessly early hazel catkins, a precocious celandine. Then yesterday reminded me of the folly of wishing winter away, of being blind to the subtle beauty of the season.

I’d come hoping to hear calls of the first oystercatchers and curlews, returning to the valley to nest. Anticipating the sight of that purple tint that develops in silver birches in Backstone Bank wood, when millions of tiny leaf buds begin to swell. Or perhaps smelling the faintly medicinal aroma of crushed new meadowsweet leaves. Not yet. But I did see something on that cold, grey, misty morning that stopped me in my tracks.