It’s hard not to feel sorry for February, isn’t it? Sandwiched between the excesses of Christmas and the optimism of spring, it’s a month more about anticipation than celebration.

Even at its longest, it’s the shortest of all months. Yet, despite being the poor relation of the calendar, it begins on a positive note with the celebration of Ireland’s matron saint, Brigid.

Known for her rush crosses, she also offers protection over an eclectic mix of people and professions, from poets and Irish nuns to fugitives and chicken farmers.

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Groundhog Day follows hot on her saintly heels, setting the tone for the weather for the next six weeks. And yes, it was as bad as you’re thinking. Then comes National Working Naked Day on 7 February – an American invention bringing new meaning to shedding winter layers – yet to catch on here you’ll be glad to know.

But setting all that aside, hope springs eternal. There is nothing quite like saying goodbye to winter to put a literal spring in your step. So before you think all is lost, let’s take a moment to celebrate this little month that quietly signals the turning of the year.

My late dad had a saying for every occasion – and none. Spring has sprung, the grass is ris, I wonder where the birdies is, being this season’s gem. And without getting into the contentious argument about the official start date of spring, we can all agree that things are stirring.

I live countryside-adjacent, close enough to smell the silage without doing any of the work.

There’s a new energy in the air as cows calve, lambs gambol, and the sounds and smells of new life drift across the fields.

Snowdrops peek through bare earth, daffodils dance in the breeze, and swathes of wild garlic spread stealthily under the protective canopy of the trees.

Overhead, a woodpecker tap-tap-taps us into the season and, while it’s still not warm enough to see the butterflies flutter by, the birds are enthusiastically practicing for the dawn chorus.

As the days slowly lengthen, there’s a grand old stretch in the evenings — nature’s welcome gift after the long, dark winter nights.

February is also the month we celebrate love. Unlikely as it seems, the commemoration of the execution of not one but two martyred Christian saints named Valentine has somehow become the most sentimental day of the year. Proof, perhaps, that love can be found in the most unexpected of places.

As the days slowly lengthen, there’s a grand old stretch in the evenings — nature’s welcome gift after the long, dark winter nights

Outwardly cynical, my inner romantic adores everything about this big, fat, extravagant excuse to shower everyone with affection. I adore the lavish bouquets of hothouse roses and baby’s breath, the syrupy songs on the radio, and the smiles on people’s faces.

As heart-shaped balloons and glossy, glittery cards declare a war of devotion as they advance through letterboxes throughout the country like a determined red army.

I got one card this year, and a very special one it is too.

‘To my best friend,’ it declared boldly in elegant cursive script, accompanied by a silhouette of a couple strolling hand in hand into the sunset.

The postman didn’t put this through my door. Instead, I retrieved it from a special box where it’s been kept for the last few years.

It sits in good company. There’s a lot of love in that old carved wooden chest: several scruffy dog collars, a monogrammed handkerchief that once lived in my dad’s cardigan pocket, and two tiny hospital bracelets that wrapped the wrists of my children on the days they were born – and that card.

A card given to me, with a lavish bouquet of roses and baby’s breath many years ago by the man I love, before he was diagnosed with dementia.

The writing has faded now. Ink, like memory, fades. Love, however, doesn’t.

And while I’ve yet to hear the distinctive call of the cuckoo launch the season in traditional style, as I put my Valentine’s card back in the box for another year, I catch the whisper of my dad’s voice drifting on the breeze.

Spring has sprung.