Out in the world, strange and alarming events fill the news. The inexplicably missing aeroplane, the Russians continuing their imperial ambitions, the ongoing tragedy of Syria bombard the mind. Here, in the contained, small, rural world in which I live, I concentrate hard on the turning of the seasons. When everything is uncertain, the things of the earth are soothing to a baffled mind.

The elegance of the crocuses.The elegance of the crocuses.

Spring comes late in Scotland. Our snowdrops are only just starting to fade. This morning, I see, with outrageous triumph, the first two daffodils of the year. Pearl the Postwoman arrives, smiling. She looks up at the sky, which is an improbable blue. ‘I thought winter would never end,’ she says. ‘It was so wet and muddy I had trench foot.’

We laugh. I think, for the hundredth time, how splendid it is that we have a postwoman called Pearl. I think: perhaps I can really believe in spring, at last.

Even as the sun shines with serious conviction, there is still snow on the high hills.Even as the sun shines with serious conviction, there is still snow on the high hills.

The first harbingers arrived a couple of weeks ago – the oystercatchers in from the coast, the pied wagtails doing their little dance, the woodpeckers battering away at the trees. But there is always a moment when one thinks it is a great joke, and that the winter will reassert itself, and everything will return to a defensive crouch.

The simple joy of rooting out the first of the spring grass.The simple joy of rooting out the first of the spring grass.

Now, though, it seems as if the matter is in earnest. There really is some warmth in the soil, and the growing things are growing, and the horses relax and bloom, unfurling themselves to the new warmth in the air like flowers themselves. Horses deal with weather much better than humans. They shut up within themselves, hunkering down for the duration with a slow stoicism. Now that the rapier chill has gone out of the weather, they open up, as if they are forming their very own welcoming committee. It’s an enchanting thing to watch. They also get a bit of spring fever, putting on their own little rodeo in the field, bucking and leaping and kicking up their heels and showing off with a few fast canters around the place.

Everything takes on a hopeful aspect. It will still be many weeks before we see a leaf on a tree. The blossom is still a distant dream. But the cold land is waking after its winter sleep, and there really is something magical in that.