SO here I am, back in the rain and delightfully cool temperatures of Cornwall. We lived in hot countries for many years, but I never particularly grew to like it or get used to it. So, unlike Geraldine who thinks we live near the Arctic Circle, I’m very comfortable in our climate.

And, even in the two weeks away, it’s easy to see the changes that show spring is on its way. The daffodils are out, still mainly in bud, but ready to show themselves as February turns to March.

Similarly, our migrant birds are on the move. The swallows and martins are on their way back from South Africa and are lounging about in the warmth of the Mediterranean. The cuckoos are very happy in the tropical regions at present and will show up here much later than most of the other summer migrants.

In the meantime, our winter visitors are getting ready to journey north for their breeding season. Waxwings, bramblings and siskins are all gathering on the east coast, ready for make the dash over the North Sea.

I love to see the early spring plants cracking on, the snowdrops, crocuses and primroses, all bravely pushing out colour in a drab landscape. Primrose is a name derived from Latin, meaning prima and rose, or “the first flower”. Apparently, the leaves are edible and taste like lettuce, but stronger. I think I’ll stick to pickled eggs, thanks.

The good news is we are only a few weeks away from the changing of the clocks, which always seems to be momentous - evident when everyone seems to be suddenly keen to be out and about. Light till after 7pm, who would have thought?!

I’ve always found it a magical time, very white arms and legs are bared to the full force of the sun, we sit outside pubs pretending it’s as warm as Barbados and we coax the car sunroof into squeaky action.

This year will be the long, glorious summer to rival 1976, we’ll run out of charcoal and suntan lotion and all be brown as berries. Ah, what a dream.