Last Easter

I’ve just received a lovely message from my niece in the UK wishing me a Happy Easter, and we reminded each other of how we had been together this time last year. In the current situation, I would have probably forgotten about Easter this year or not wanted to celebrate it, had it not been for the wonderful photos of spring flowers and painted Easter eggs that my friends have been whatsapping me. For that I am truly grateful.

Last Easter in the UK seems so long ago now. So much has happened since, but I find myself savouring the memory. I don’t normally spend this time of year away from San Sebastian, but now I’m glad I did. Spring is a wonderful time of year in the county of Devon where my family live. The spring flowers are bursting from the hedgerows, a cacophony of colour, making the lanes appear even narrower. Primroses, red campion, buttercups, violets….I know the names of them all, learnt from a young age. That’s the joy of having been brought up in the countryside, your vocabulary is extensive and unique, a secret language that sets you apart from urban dwellers.

This time last year my daughter, my father and I went to see the woodland that has been cleared near my parents’ house and carefully owned and looked after by the villagers. A bluebell wood is one of the most astonishing sights nature can offer. A delicate carpet of cobalt blue that never fails to stun and take your breath away. There was a path winding its way down the valley and a little bench, dappled in the sunlight, on which to contemplate the view. I will never forget that magical place.

This year, despite being housebound, I am trying to marvel at the nature all around me here. The pink blossoms are out in the neighbourhood, their delicate petals fluttering to the ground. The sparrows are getting ready to nest under the eaves, their diminutive beaks filled with twigs and fluff. In a matter of a week the trees behind where I live have started to burst their emerald green leaves, blocking the view of the little white house perched far away up on Mount Igueldo. A friend who is able to walk her dog posts photos on Facebook of the wildflower meadow behind where I live. It is comforting to know that it is still there. One of the first things I’ll do when this is all over will be to climb the hill, wade through the knee high grass and take in the spectacular views.

I also remember that last year my brother’s partner organised an Easter egg hunt for the kids. The weather was so hot the chocolate eggs melted. Whilst the kids ran around frantically, looking behind bushes and climbing branches trying to find the eggs, us adults lounged on the grass drinking bubbly and eating strawberries, and the odd chocolate egg. Happy days.

This year we have no chocolate eggs in the house. That is bad news for a secret chocoholic like me. Easter eggs are not traditional here in the Basque Country, although less than an hour away, if you cross the border into France (as we often used to do at weekends). I imagine that the patisserie windows are bursting with elaborate displays of chocolate eggs and hens. It doesn’t matter though, we have home-made hot cross buns courtesy of my husband and daughter.

I also wanted to make a Simnel cake like my grandmother used to make, but in the absence of saffron, I made a tea bread instead, frugally using some hard prunes left over from Christmas soaked in fruit tea. Little pleasures to keep us going.

So, at the moment I am sitting here with my happy memories of last Easter, tinged with sadness, but also trying to find something positive out of this situation, with the hope that next year I might actually be able to spend time with family, enjoy an Easter egg and get to visit that bluebell wood again.