Romeo and Juliet, Act II, scene vi,William Shakespeare Looking back, we had no idea. It all seemed normal. February had surrendered to March without a fuss. Only the moon noticed the difference, off on its rounds again. Despite the first daffodils’ most ecstatic fling, nobody round here expected March to be anything but another month of winter dragging its feet. Even April can hang in the balance, so in March we expected to wait on, patiently, trying hard to avoid the word ‘spring’, although the great tits were nagging and the wrens were taunting us all day long. Frosts had crisped the lawn for the last two weeks of February and mists hung over the river until noon when, like a bolshie teenager, the sun seemed to wake up properly and managed a smile. It was good. Most days were dry. We were out and about, doing tasks we hadn’t been able to do for months. Then, without warning, everything changed. A gentle wind moseyed in, like a cruise ship docking from the Mediterranean, dragging with it a Continental high more appropriate to Monaco than the Moray Firth.
