I think to myself, what a wonderful world

IT IS early April and the train from Budejovice in the Czech Republic to Linz in Austria takes us through a wintry countryside, not a wild flower, weed or blade of new grass yet to be seen.

Snow lies in pockets in the woods beside the track; a cold fog hangs over the lakes and fields. The birches are leafless, their trunks and branches bleakly elegant against the grey sky.

For a minute, I wonder why we’re not at home in Ireland, where spring is on the wing.