If there is one thing a hill farmer in Wales possesses in abundance - besides a sturdy pair of wellies and a sceptical relationship with the Met Office – it's resilience.

We’ve certainly needed it lately. This past winter wasn't just cold; it was relentless. The mountains have felt like giant sponges that have reached saturation point. We’ve endured a succession of storms that turned every track into a tributary and every gateway into a bog. Managing ewes in horizontal sleet and rain while the ground dissolves into peat is a test of character that few outside the industry truly grasp. But as the days stretch out and the daylight lingers longer the atmosphere on the yard and around the kitchen table begins to shift. We are in the most exhausting, exhilarating and essential period of the year: Spring.

After months of silence, punctuated only by the whistle of the wind, I long for the return and song of the skylarks. There is no sound quite like it. It’s the soundtrack to the thaw, to better, drier and warmer days ahead. To hear a skylark hovering invisible against a pale blue sky is to be reminded that despite the poaching and the puddles, the land is waking up. While the lush lowlands might see the emerald green of early growth, there is something deeply rewarding about watching the hardy fescue and moor-grasses wake up on our high ground. It’s the signal that the hungry gap between the lean period where the silage stocks are starting to look worryingly low is finally closing.

Of course, looking forward to spring is a double-edged sword. The shed lights are burning at 3am and the farmhouse kitchen becomes a makeshift infirmary. The weather can flip from a mild morning to a biting easterly wind in the time it takes to grab a crook. Yet, despite the lack of sleep, there is no better sight than a sturdy lamb finding its legs within minutes of hitting the ground. Our stock are built for this terrain - tough, nimble, and born with a defiance that mirrors the communities they surround.

Beyond the sheep, there is another milestone we have all been eyeing with anticipation: the day the shed doors finally stay open for the cattle. There is an infectious joy in watching the cows head out for their first taste of fresh grass after a long winter inside. Even the oldest, most dignified suckler cow seems to find her inner calf, skipping and bucking across the pasture with a lack of grace that only a farmer could find beautiful. It’s a moment of relief for the bank balance - as the straw and silage usage finally drops - but also for the soul.

We’ve survived the mud and rain. We’ve endured the dark. Now, the sap is rising, and it’s time to get to work.