In the pink

The pink blossom seems to be particularly prolific this year, which is a joy to see.

I have a particular fondness for it.

In 1982 Mum and I moved house (it would remain her home until she went into a carehome a few years ago).

There was nothing remarkable about the house, it was your standard post-war three bed semi. It was the last house in our village (which was at the top of what passes for a hill in Lincolnshire) as you went towards town so the view from my bedroom window was pretty good - an uninterrupted view across the fields and across to town.

But that’s not what I remember most about my childhood bedroom, because right outside my window was a tree. A tree that around about this time of year was covered in pink blossom. I spent so many hours sitting at my window staring at it and, as blossom season ended, watching flurries of petals swirl like pink snow storms.

That particular tree is long gone and my childhood home is now filled with a different family, but every year the pink blossom takes me back to that room and those springs. And that’s why every year my phone is full of photos of pink blossom…