An evocation of spring, and the job it has on the wheel of the year, dragging us through the last of the rainy and cold days (and this was 2024, a notoriously wet and miserable spring) to the growing, bursting, sunny climes of summer. Morpurgo just wishes the bluebells to come to life in the woods on his farm, and for the swallows to readopt their homes in what had been planned to be his garage but is now their des-res, and knows when to stop feeding the wild birds, for that means spring is here and the birds are more independent.
It's a 'nature notes' book from someone who doesn't see the incredibly exotic, who doesn't know the name for everything. One sighting has to be verified by a neighbour before he's sure what flew over. It's not a 'here's my specialist knowledge' kind of memoir, but there is wisdom here. For the book shows us how vital spring is to the world, and how it's still fragile enough to need our help to restore nature to what is was like before us, and how much his charity (bringing city-dwelling kids to the wild landscape of the farm for a week's working break) acts as a spring in someone's life. People, in each year and in their whole time on this earth, may want to jump from being a bud to the halcyon days of summer and plenty, but a spring of variety, insecurity, care and growth is very much for the best.
It's a quick read, and for fairness I saw a digital review copy minus the artwork, and is probably only for those of the same sentiment as the author. I can see some people not quite appreciating it – perhaps I'm one of them, to some extent – but as a populist nature piece, it has all the populism and strong, unshowy writing of the man's typical output. A perhaps cautious recommendation, then, but this – read as it was on the spring equinox – was always able to give pleasure.