The daffs are out, the clocks have gone forward and the garden’s just damp enough to justify staying inside. Spring has officially sprung, although, in true British fashion, it’s doing so very politely.
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This isn’t the kind of spring where we fling open the windows and skip into a meadow. No. This is the “coat on, scarf maybe, but sunglasses in bag just in case” kind of spring. The quiet, gentle sort. And I love it.
So here’s a little moodboard. Not the Pinterest kind, but a real one, made of small things I’ve noticed lately. Things that feel like April in Britain.
Pastel wrappers and egg-shaped everything
There’s a very specific kind of joy to turning the corner in a shop and seeing shelves full of pastel foils, cardboard eggs and chocolate chicks with bemused expressions. I don’t know what it is, but Easter packaging just hits different. It’s not about the chocolate (although let’s be honest, that helps). It’s the promise of spring. The lemon curd’s back, hot cross buns are being toasted with reckless abandon and I keep seeing tiny bunches of primroses by the till – none of which I actually need, but all of which I very much want.
Crocuses making brave little appearances
They’re the early risers of the flower world, out there in the cold before anyone else has even thought about sprouting. I’ve seen them peeking up in parks, roadside verges, even that sad little square of grass outside the post office. Clusters of purple and gold, like tiny floral flags saying “Nearly there, hang on in.” They’re scrappy, optimistic and somehow always look a bit surprised to be here. I respect that.
Tea that tastes different now
It’s the same old tea – same mug, same kettle, same comforting routine – and yet it tastes different. Lighter. Less of a survival tool, more of a gentle companion. I’ve been drifting toward floral blends again. Earl Grey with a splash of something citrusy, or even the occasional rose petal infusion when I’m feeling especially whimsical. The kind of tea that pairs well with a biscuit and a moment of staring wistfully out the window.
Books with blossom on the cover
Spring always nudges me toward gentler reads. Not necessarily fluffy, but quiet, the kind of book where nothing explodes, nobody gets murdered and the main plot twist is someone unexpectedly turning up with a sponge cake.
It’s also the perfect time to return to Jane Austen. There’s something in her measured pace, her dry humour and her love of a country lane that feels just right in April. If you’re choosing one, I’d go for Emma. It’s full of light and mischief, with just enough scandal to keep you turning pages and more garden strolls than you can shake a bonnet at.
This Heritage edition of Emma is rather lovely too, gold-foiled, clothbound and just grand enough to leave out on the coffee table without looking like you’re trying. It feels like the kind of book Emma herself might have displayed, casually but very much on purpose.
The return of daylight (but I’m still lighting candles)
We’ve officially hit the “light until after 8pm” part of the year, and I won’t lie, it feels like a bit of a win. There’s something hopeful about glancing at the clock and realising it’s still light. That said, I am fully committed to the 5pm candle. It’s a ritual now. I light it before I start making dinner and it just makes the evening feel a bit softer. Especially when it’s one of those fresh spring scents – bluebell, linen, something that says “the windows are open (even if they’re not).”
A sudden need to do everything in the garden
This happens every year. The moment it’s above 12 degrees, I get an overwhelming urge to relocate my entire life outdoors. Not in a practical, “let’s plant things” sort of way, more like “could I drink my tea outside and feel smug about it?” I’ve sat on garden chairs that were definitely still damp. I’ve eaten biscuits on a picnic rug that’s more decorative than functional. I’ve even considered weeding, though I wisely let that feeling pass. It’s the idea of outdoor living I’m enjoying, the gentle lie that this could be the summer I get into tomatoes.
Still raining, obviously
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s still raining, but even the rain feels different now. Less aggressive. More… decorative? There’s a softness to it. A sort of misty drizzle that smells like earth and wet grass and walks you meant to take but didn’t. We’re still in that “umbrella in the bag” zone of life, but it no longer feels like a punishment. Just a gentle reminder that yes, this is still Britain, and no, you can’t put the waterproof away yet.
In short…
Spring isn’t about reinvention or doing All The Things. It’s about the small stuff. Noticing that the light’s changed, the birds sound louder and your tea suddenly pairs better with lemon cake. I’m leaning into it all, slowly, gently and with no pressure to bloom dramatically. A quiet unfurling. That’s more than enough.
Here’s to April, with all its daffs, drizzle and moments of calm.
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