The wind roars through the branches; the sound seeming to echo of a far–off sea. The trees are all clothed in green and ochre, though some have yet to unfurl their leaves. The joyous abandon of the cherry blossom floats on the wind like pastel snow and just as ephemeral. The earth at their feet is strewn with petals, a carpet of pink and white, a bright fantasy against the wet tarmac and vivid green of rain-washed grass. I wish I had the camera, but it isn’t really a morning for photography. The rain hammers down and the trees bend and bow in the wind that robs them of their fading glory, making way for the playful majesty of the chestnut flowers.

The weather here is a wonderful thing, constantly changing. It is something of a national preoccupation, largely because it is almost completely unpredictable. We complain about it all…