Last evening after an intense day spent editing a friend’s Masters’ thesis, cooking, then presenting at a three-hour-long webinar, I couldn’t resist a post-dinner stroll. It was past 8.30pm, pre-twilight, the sky a shade of indigo, the fresh sap-green springing forth from the earth contrasting against everything, especially the black-grey hail nets that had already, in many instances, been shuttered over the apple trees. Since we’d been to Venice the week before, since I’m now working closely with Ocean Space, housed within the restored San Lorenzo church, we hadn’t walked in the direction of Rungg, the neighbouring town, in at least two weeks. So the sight of roses terrifyingly in bloom came as a surprise to both of us.

The path leading northwards from Tramin to Rungg borders vineyards and edges along a mountainous terrain, offering stellar views of the Etsch valley. It had started to become exceedingly familiar to us from the beginning of our second lockdown, when we weren’t allowed to move beyond our municipality. The repeated visiting of the same road across a span of time allowed for a deep familiarity. As winter mellowed down and allowed for the onset of spring, the world around this path was activated differently with streams of yellow flowers locally called Ginster studding our immediate field of vision. When they began to recede in their stead emerged the purple-hued inverted pyramid-shaped Glyzenias with their heady scent. Around March, the tulips began to bloom. Some years ago, a farmer in Tramin planted Tulips along the floor of his vineyard. The result was so stunning, it became a trend. This year, like last year, my father-in-law planted over 1,000 Tulips in the vineyard behind our house. We watched them bloom in every conceivable colour combination. It never stopped being spectacular.