While walking through the Cove on Sunday I spotted a clump of yellow crocuses in bloom. Their blossoms were stretched open as wide as the petals would allow while they revelled in a thin ray of late February sun. This seemed another welcome harbinger of spring arriving, Ford in his flivver. Until a closer examination introduced an undercurrent of alarm.

It struck me that the precise shade of yellow sported by these crocus blooms could be described by no other word than “buttercup” — and I began to wonder if they were not some sign of disorder in the plant world, a form of floral revolt, one genus disguised as another with nefarious intent. The rest of the way home I was on my guard, and only breathed more easily when I was once again inside our fence, where the lawn is always a reassuring shade of moss, the gate-hinges a reliable rust.