Yesterday represented the second day that residents of this area knew of a certainty that spring had finally arrived. Embraced by a warmth we haven't experienced since last fall under clear blue skies and a gentle breeze, it was hard to deny that elusive spring had entered at long last.

The garden of course looks miserably abandoned, sere and bereft of any natural architecture other than the shrubs and trees that lend it an air of temporary loss. But look a little closer, and we can see green spears of grape hyacinth, the thick, thrusting foliage of tulips, the determined shoots of lilies and irises prepared to relocate from the thawing garden soil to the upper levels of thaw and finally that break-out of preparation for bloom.

The ornamental trees like our magnolias are beginning to swell their over-wintering buds for early spring bloom, and the weeping caragana and mulberries present their own fascinating undercarriage soon to be hidden by foliage. Another month and the dry, unappealing appearance of the early spring garden will have been transformed in texture and colour.

In the ravine yesterday afternoon, we slid and slithered about on what remains of the snow and ice on the hillside trails. We thought that at 13C degrees it would be warm enough to turn it all to slush and there would be no need for the cleats strapped over our boots we have been dependent on for the winter months for stability and secure footing. I changed into hiking boots and it felt wonderful, really freeing. The reality was a little different, unfortunately.

It does sap one's confidence to have little control on a ice-slippery  hill. There were places, granted, where the ice could be bypassed, where the snow was secure enough to hold my boots in place, but in other areas my husband's sturdy confidence bolstered mine as he held me steady and helped me manoeuvre downhill.

We all wore lighter garments, including Jackie and  Jillie, who aren't much bothered by sliding about to begin with.  All the fresh, new fragrances released by the melting snow and ice intrigue them no end, and we'd rather not know what they're comprised of, truth to tell. When we're suspicious we call them away. Despite which, they gnaw their fill of little twigs, a habit nothing we've done has ever cured them of.