I’ve written before about ‘my’ secret garden, a clandestine jewel tucked in the heart of Regent’s Park. I’ve visited in autumn, rusty leaves crunching underfoot, and in late summer, the last tendrils of wisteria drooping yellow with age. I’ve visited in deepest winter too, the paths a quagmire of mud and frost, and yet still it retained its charm. Now, spring. It’s my favourite, of course. The garden is still quiet enough, though part of the path is closed until mid-April should you wish to explore for yourself. The borders are sprouting tulips and primroses, daffodils and muscari. A pair of magnolia trees sing their seasonal symphony, a concerto of pale pinks and mauves. My favourites are the drooping, dusk-pink hellebores, or Lenten roses, as they’re sometimes known for the season in which they bloom. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of this place. With its pathways empty and the blooms just waking up from their winter sleep, the garden fills me with a quiet hope and the feeling that the very best is yet to come.