There is a slight pulse of inner, almost fiery heat, just under my cheekbones.

A little rush of blood to my face. A kind of glow around my form. Maybe, even a touch of joy working its way up from my exposed ankles to my darkening wrists?

My face in the mirror has already gone from winter grey to a pink flush, softening the winter's revealed lines.

Oh, thank you, God. Here comes the sun.

Reluctantly, I've come inside to write my column. It is the first day that we've reached 21 degrees and suddenly there is the rekindled memory of summers past.

I've been sitting at my table and chairs now totally colonised by lichen - no sign of the expensive teak I initially oiled and cossetted.

Lichen is, apparently, a sign of the purity of the air here, not my neglect, so I'll run with that, ignoring the truth of my laziness in caring for the expensive set.

My neighbour's tractor is moving between his fields of winter wheat. There's an enormous appendage on the back.

Part of me half knows it must be chemical fertiliser, as we are the most fertilised part of France, and I wonder what the hell I'm breathing in.

But, as a smoker most of my life, I think 'tant pis.' I worry about the pup though and call him inside.

He lies at my feet as I write and I feel...I feel... happy.

I'll hold on to that. For the one thing growing old teaches you, is that happiness is a second, a minute and rarely, a day.

It can't be manufactured for it is too slippery an emotion. It prefers to sidle up, unannounced and often unexpected. That's its gift.

Today, I've had several hours of what could be called happiness.

Tomorrow I may not recall it so let me try and capture it now.

It began with the opening of the shutters and the shock of a heat kiss. That's the feel of foreign breath on the skin in the early hours and not the harsh intake of cold air as the day breaks.

It continued with the long walk with the pup and the awareness and awakening of spring in all around me.

I haven't properly walked since the broken legs so it was odd to find out that there could be a slight bounce in the limbs, perhaps a twinge, but also a pleasure that they worked.

Odd to pause and hear bird song, faint cluckings of hens and thrubs of geese. Normally, I often just hear and feel oppressive silence existing alongside the constant static of tinnitus.

I registered the tiny blue wildflowers carpeting the drain verges, the hidden clumps of daffodils that no one except a walker sees, the slender shoots of wild garlic which will be swiftly picked by my neighbours.

Looking at the farrowed fields with their huge, chunks of the clay soil which made this region a magnet for pottery workers in the Middle Ages, I wondered anew at the fortitude of the farmers of yesteryear.

Not for them the huge air-conditioned beasts with dozens of gear changes which eat up the earth in no time. Only the hoe and horse, and grim determination.

I don't know what will be planted this year but think, on the rotation principle, it will be sunflowers and LM will sit amidst a Van Gogh painting once more.

Sadly, more and more, the vast stretches of polytunnels disturb the undulating eye-line. M Dupont's will soon be thrown back for the gangs to handpick the sweet strawberries for which he's renowned.

Last year the Portuguese were replaced by the cheaper Poles, breaking a long, long tradition. In these times money counts even more than normal for my canny neighbours and any saving is welcomed.

Roslyn tells me though, that M Dupont is also known for paying fair and well and providing good food and wine for his squads at the end of their backbreaking long days.

That tradition of hospitality has not been broken. Soon he will arrive here bearing a pallet of punnets just for me.

He is used to women who cook and make jams and cakes and I haven't the heart to tell him I do none of these.

So I put aside what I'll eat and share on his largesse.

Robert, 87 this year, will be getting out his fruit basket in which, as the months go on, he'll bring me cherries, apricots, plums, gnarled apples and finally huge, almost bursting, figs.

And he'll tell me of the exhibitions he's seen, the music he's enjoyed and once more try to teach me the rudiments of compote making.

Again, I'll listen and smile, enjoying his clear accentless French - then share on his bounty.

All these things I thought of as I sat outside, anticipating the small delights to come as the sun penetrated to the marrow.

The winter has been far from hard, just grey and wet. Nothing to grouse about, but of course we have. It's what we do.

And once more as nature reclaims all in its heart-stopping opening, I remember why I'm here.

The sun. The heat.