I have always marveled at the coming of Spring and its magical quality that it cast upon the land, a balm upon the dampened spirit.
The winter days have receded in people’s minds like a bad dream, a muddied memory, soon to be extinguished by the bright delights of Nature’s rebirth heralded by Spring. The woods, with their luxurious foliage constantly in motion under the dazzling beams of the sun, are alive with sounds, be they the joyful singing of a bird aloft, the occasional tapping of a woodpecker, the low humming of the bee that hops from one flower to the next or the chirp of a cricket rising from a shrub.
Flowers appear everywhere, mutating the dull, sometimes oppressive, tones of winter into an explosion of vibrant colors; they prop up among the soft moss or between the cracks of an ancient wall, they cover the glade, they adorn the branches of trees, they invade the fresh meadow of fields, they sprout on the side of the road; specks of gold, purple, indigo, scarlet, roseate, or chestnut scattered upon the landscape as if by the invisible hand of a painter.
I have spent many mornings, many afternoons, camera ready, in timeless rambles about the area surrounding Greenock. I visited nearby groves and woods, I walked in the moor, I strolled along inner country roads, I explored the coast of the Clyde, I wandered up the steep path of the glen. On these occasions which offered me a contrast with the urban life, a respite from the rush and the flow of humanity, I could not help but be mesmerized by the beauty of the landscape, the multitudes of trees, plants and flowers, the varied scents that permeate the air. It is a festival for the senses that nature produces and which keeps you under the sway of a spell.