Spring is my favourite time of the year. New life is springing up everywhere. I’m listening for the first chiff chaff, the first willow warbler. The rest of the year will be series of pilgrimages. There’s a sense in which every visit to the countryside is a kind of pilgrimage, but a pilgrimage is more than a stroll in the woods. 

A pilgrimage involves a search. It maybe a search with every chance of success; it may be a search which guarantees nothing. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been to New Fancy Viewpoint in yet another failed attempt to see a goshawk. Having said that, this year I was treated to three pretty good sightings. 

And then there’s the search (in August) for the violet helleborine. It’s one of Gloucestershire’s obscure rarities and is only to be found in the darkest and most mysterious recesses of the Lower Woods reserve. I rarely find one unless I’m prepared to spend several hours of persistent searching.

But there’s one pilgrimage that we make every year in late March/early April that doesn’t involve a search at all. I’m talking about the pilgrimage to see the wild daffodils in the area between Newent and Dymock. They don’t occur in their hundreds or even thousands. There are millions of them, all around you before you even get out of the car, sights that take your breath away. 

We start with Gwen and Vera’s reserve. From there, it’s walking distance to Dymock Wood (not one of our reserves). Then we proceed to Betty Dawes reserve and then on to Vell Mill, about a mile to the East of Dymock village. For some reason, very few people seem to find Vell Mill, which is a shame because it’s a gem. But the good thing is that you probably have the reserve to yourself. 

In the top right-hand corner of the reserve there’s a bench. And there we sat, for about half an hour; doing absolutely nothing: just celebrating idleness! And the daffodils were in such profusion that they reminded me that our countryside is, in every sense a land of both hope and glory. I raise my eyes to take in the blue dome above me. I watch the white vapour trials of aircraft at 30,000 feet. My gaze returns to the daffodils and my mind drifts away to thoughts that are utterly pointless; like “Was the Garden of Eden something like this?” and “I wonder if Adam and Eve made time for games of Pooh sticks?” 

But then it’s time for lunch and we head for the village hall in Dymock, where an army of old ladies have been busy, all week, baking an enormous selection of cakes. There’s a wonderful sense of community at these events and there’s something unashamedly British about it. I tuck into a cheese and pickle roll accompanied by a mug of tea…and I can’t resist buying a jar of homemade marmalade.

We wander over to the toys stall. Maybe there’s something our grandsons’ might like, but there isn’t. The old ladies have been knitting toys out of wool. But there are things that should never be made out of wool. That penguin is hideous! The boys would prefer a tank!

I head for the door …because outside I’ve spotted a Marshfield van…selling gelato. Gelato is Italian for ice-cream but they’re not the same thing. Gelato is Premier Division ice cream. Trust me, I know these things, and I know just about every gelateria south of Birmingham! As one of life’s great pleasures, gelato ranks right up there with games of Pooh sticks. In a gesture of unreserved indulgence, I order three scoops, and three different flavours. 

What better way to draw a splendid day to a close.