My garden also gets a makeover. Naomi is as good as her word and attacks the brambles with gusto, while, under her watchful eye, I make a start on the weeding, and together we fill endless wheelbarrows until our backs beg us to stop. She also bravely helps me clear out the shed, which turns out not only to contain so many spiders that I nearly die of arachnophobia, but to be a treasure trove from the past.

We unearth several dusty boxes of original Victorian glazed tiles; rolls of hand-painted wallpaper, carefully stored in a trunk and in perfect condition; half a dozen lovely old paintings; antique mirrors with their original mercury glass; and a couple of Art Deco lamps with kaleidoscope-glass shades wrapped in hessian. It’s a miracle they’re not chipped.

‘All they need is rewiring and bulbs,’ Naomi says, giving them a wipe-down, ‘and they’ll be as good as new.’

Excitement flickers. I haven’t been able to see beyond all the building work, but now I glimpse the light at the end of the tunnel – no pun intended – and the fun part of decorating the rooms with lamps and rugs, hanging pictures and choosing paint colours.

‘Damn! This one has a crack.’ I point to the hairline fracture in the tip of one of the shades.

‘That’s where the light gets in,’ Naomi grins. ‘It’s the imperfections that give something its character.’

And I smile too, because I know she’s not just talking about the lamps.

With the rise in temperatures, spring seems to appear overnight in an explosion of colour. Roadsides and riverbanks are transformed by golden daffodils, woods are filled with a magical carpet of bluebells, and the village is awoken like Sleeping Beauty rousing from her slumbers, after winter had cast its spell.

Meanwhile I’m now woken by the dawn chorus and find myself rising early. When I lived in London I noticed the change in seasons by the clothes in the high-street windows, but here I feel like part of nature itself. Despite sleeping less, I feel more energized than I have done in months, as if it’s not merely the countryside that’s bursting into life.

Harry can feel it too. On our walks he has an extra spring in his step and seems to be able to walk that little bit further, his nose tipped towards the unmistakable smell of wild garlic, and his ears cocked for the distinctive whistling sound of the swooping curlews that the Brontës used to write about.

On Monday, Naomi and Ellie accompany me and Harry on a walk down to the river. They’re due to catch the train back to London later that afternoon and Naomi is keen for ‘a last blast of nature’.

‘So do you miss it? London, I mean?’ she’s asking now, as we walk along the footpath so Ellie can see the sheep and cows grazing in the neighbouring fields.

‘I miss the green curry with tofu from our local Thai restaurant,’ I confess. ‘And my favourite bookshop in Marylebone – I used to drop by for five minutes when I was in town and end up losing all track of time . . .’ My mind scrolls back. ‘And I loved cycling through the parks.’