THE BEGINNING of March every year, the farm in the next village holds a lambing day. The only way to know when it will be is to wait for the signs to appear on the main road; hand-painted in spring colours, with outlines of frolicking lambs, daffodils, and the promise of tea and homemade cake.
The farm is the largest building in a tiny village, where two groups of terraced cottages and a church huddle around a green scattered with barely open daffodils. Family groups and excited children dressed in wellies and warm coats spill into the farmyard to be greeted by a handsome shire horse. The wall of the farmhouse is covered in upturned horseshoes: from a distance, they look like a flock of rusty birds in flight.
In the big barn, the floor is covered with a thick layer of straw, and as visitors file in, the farmer gives a commentary on which ewe is likely to lamb first. In the far corner, a group of visitors learn how to make corn dollies, while a farm worker offers a bucket of grain to a huddle ofchildren. They plunge their hands into it as he explains the role of the farm in producing food.
In the church, I sit on one of the pews, balancing a wedge of fruit cake on my lap as I drink a mug of tea. It’s a bit weak, but the convivial atmosphere makes up for it. This modest event – whether there are any lambs born that day or not – is the start of spring for me.

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