Staunton Country Park, Havant: Against my black fleece, this arachnid is startlingly vivid. In the fresh green of the beech canopy, it disappears

The forecast had promised warm spring sunshine – ideal weather for a forest bathing class. Instead, a squally shower arrived without warning, and we ended up hugging tree trunks more out of necessity than mindfulness. In full leaf, the mature beech grove canopy would have kept us dry, but this early in the season, the leaves had only just unfurled, letting the rain through to saturate my jumper. For a while, we listened in silence as the foliage changed its voice, a dry whisper deepening into a steady, percussive patter.

Thankfully, the downpour passed as quickly as it had arrived. Light filtered through the leaves, and we drifted back along the path until the trees opened into a small clearing. The instructor suggested that we sit on a semi-circle of fallen trunks, urging us to feel the texture of the rough-stalked feather moss (Brachythecium rutabulum) cushioning our makeshift benches. Flasks were passed around, the nettle and chamomile tea offering a welcome warmth.

Langstone, Hampshire: Solitary bees, albeit hundreds of them, are hovering low to the ground, hoping to mate before nightfall

One of the 68 UK-recorded species of mining bee in the genus Andrena, the ashy mining bee (Andrena cineraria) is classified as solitary. Yet on the narrow, balding strip of turf in front of my neighbours’ garage, they appear anything but.

The ground shimmers with movement, as several hundred bees hover low in the spring sunshine. While each female maintains her own burrow – a neat, pencil-eraser-sized hole excavated in the bare, sun-warmed soil – they’ve gathered here in a dense aggregation, turning this modest patch into a bustling settlement.

Langstone, Hampshire: A glistening raft of jelly is a promising sign of a frog resurgence after newts dominated for a decade

I register the arrival of spring through small, dependable signs in my garden: queen buff-tailed bumblebees wobbling through purple crocuses in search of nectar; the pungent scent of wild garlic; bluetits prospecting the nest box below my bedroom window; and the wren’s cascading song heralding the start of the breeding season.

Frogspawn used to be one of these markers, but not for many years. Then, 10 days ago, glancing more from habit than expectation, I saw it – a glistening raft moored against the water forget-me-nots. After such a long absence, it felt quietly momentous.