OK, so before I start, a brief lesson in geoclimatology. I live at about 1100 m asl in the Apennine mountains of central Italy. It’s geographically the Mediterranean (although the sea itself is actually rather too far away for my tastes), so the summers are typically baking hot and dusty dry, but the high elevation brings us bitterly cold, stark winters that last much too long. In short, the worst of both worlds. In between though, come the most delightful half seasons you could imagine. Spring of course, with all its pulsating promise, just bounding with life. But also autumn when (usually in late August/early September) the first rains bring solace to the parched land and all those withered brown things suddenly turn into lush green plants again (alas, just in time to succumb to the first winter frosts, but that’s another story). Walking in my scrubby oak woods is a joy at this time of year, hunting out those minuscule, resilient reminders that water is indeed the source of life. Like this minute seedling sprouting amongst the moss on a dead tree trunk, because in nature, nothing lives… or dies… without a reason.