Jonny McCambridge: Enjoying the glory of a beautiful spring morning ... what could possibly go wrong?

Now that the cold and harsh fingers of winter have finally loosened their suffocating grip, I am able to sit on the little wooden bench with the peeling paint outside our house to enjoy my steaming mug of coffee in the early hours. I have things to do but am in no rush to get them done.

There is growth and life all around me, multiple shades of green in the garden. The grass is freshly cut, the leaves on the trees and bushes are dancing in the light and warm breeze which is also tickling the fair hairs on my forearms.

I watch the clothes hanging on the washing line, drying quickly under the warmth of the rays of the rising sun. It is one of my least favourite parts of winter, having to dry clothes inside the house. It just feels cleaner and more natural to have my socks pegged to the line and tossed about in the open air rather than steaming over the radiator in my spare room.

We have been enjoying several days of sunny weather and it is hard not to feel intoxicated, moved in a good way by the sights and sounds, carried along by the momentum of annual rebirth. The temperature is not high enough to make me feel uncomfortable, the sun not fierce enough to make me, with my pale skin, run for cover. The temperature is exactly where I want it to be and I am perfectly content to sit there, watching the shadows shift and shorten as the sun makes its steady ascent.

It is a time of promise. I can already see the buds sprouting on the little crab apple tree and experience tells me that there will be another bumper harvest.

The rose bush, which blooms every year at my son’s birthday in May, is also showing signs of life as the little red bulbs grow heavy ahead of bursting open in the next few weeks.

I am captivated by the colours. Not many weeks ago the garden seemed barren and it was hard to imagine that anything would ever grow there again. I am no gardener and don’t know the names of plants and bushes, but there are vibrant scarlet leaves on one shrub and rich violet petals on small flowers close to it.

But it is the daffodils which demand the most attention, brilliantly golden blooms with the green stalks standing tall and confident. I like the spring flowers when they are just like this and know it will not be very long before the petals crisp and turn brown at the edges and the stalks collapse pathetically sideways, betrayed by their short span of life.

There are sounds too. The chorus of birdsong is constant. I know as much about birds as I do about flowers and can’t distinguish the myriad calls and chimes. I’m just about competent enough to identify the two doves which return to our garden every year and perch on the wooden fence, but my ornithology skills stretch no further.

There’s one bird which is louder than the rest, its song more urgent and striking. I find him in the conifer over my shoulder. It’s a small creature, perhaps a sparrow or a tit or a chaffinch, I really don’t have a clue but I’m more than happy to watch the little fellow chirp excitedly and angrily for a few minutes before flying off to sort whatever business has made him so agitated.

I sip at my drink which is now the perfect temperature. My life seems to be a series of episodes of throwing away half-drunk cups of coffee which have been left too long and gone cold. I am pleased I have judged it so well. The bitter black liquid restores something within me and the sense of a small triumph adds to my already satisfied state.

A fat bee is crawling slowly on the bench beside me. If my wife or son were here they would be running for the door, but the insect doesn’t bother me. I am totally sanguine and make no move to alarm the bee as it inches closer to my leg. I am aware of the sound of machinery nearby.

I consider this must be the best way to start the morning. It is a working day but I am not cowed by the sense of responsibility.

I am relaxed and am genuinely not sure that there is anything which could annoy me now.

I notice the foul aroma at around the same time that my son is leaving the house to get the school bus. His reaction is more violent than my own.

“Daddy, what is that smell? It’s disgusting!”

“It’s slurry son.”

“Slurry, what’s that?”

“Well, it’s…it’s liquified manure I suppose.”

"Manure?”

"Um, poo, cow poo mixed with water, I think. The farmers put it on the fields to make the crops grow.”

"Eugh!”

My son heads off towards the bus stop holding his nose and displaying an expression of extreme distaste. I attempt to go back to my previous easy state on the bench, but my senses are scrambled by the pungency of the mixture being spread in the field across the road from our house. It is more than an aroma, it can almost be tasted in the air.

I take another sip of the coffee, but it is different now, the liquid is repugnant to me and I throw what is left in the mug into a flower bed. I try to pick up the song of the birds again but they are drowned out by the roaring tractor which is going up and down the field in lines.

It is time to go inside. Before I get up, I notice again my shirts flapping on the line. I decide that I had better bring the clothes in.