Ireckon spring is just around the corner. No, I haven't heard the cuckoo yet and neither have I seen a bright yellow daffodil nodding in the wind. February's snow and ice is now behind us, though I don't entirely believe there isn't some more of that in front of us. I've known it snow in April and I vaguely recall it did so in May in years past.

My reason for thinking this is the reappearance of certain creatures emerging from winter hibernation. Not rabbits. Not badgers or even the mouse that lives in my garden wall.

The creatures I'm referring to have been holed up all winter with a hot radiator and a load of television repeats, both of which sent them deeper and deeper into a glazed-eyed stupor.

Eventually something had to give. The sun came out. Not hot. Not even that warm because the cold wind is still about. But there was a definite shift in the greyness.

Noses twitching, they sniff the air, no doubt detecting a sudden extra degree of temperature along with a certain zing in the air.

Unlike rabbits and other small mammals emerging from their burrows, this has nothing to do with the approach of the mating season. On the contrary, most of those I speak of are well beyond that stage of their lives – well, for the most part they are.

"They're back," I shout. The old man of the house doesn't bother to ask to whom I'm referring. There they are, striding past the window armed with Ordnance Survey maps and wearing tough boots and waxed windcheater jackets.

I'm talking about the "intrepid walkers".

Once the weather starts looking forward, so does the walker. Out of all the visitors to the village and the forest beyond, these are the most numerous. They also bring less revenue to the village and area than almost anyone else, armed as they are with a Tupperware box full of sandwiches, energy bars and cartons of fruit juice.

Unless they're of the academic variety, of course, students and/or lecturers taking time off to bond in the great outdoors. They're still armed with Ordnance Survey maps, but have added other useful booklets, the most referred to being the CAMRA guide to traditional cask ales – a more concentrated energy booster than little cartons of fruit juice.

Overall, the walkers are a pretty polite lot, the only exception being that this year they tend to press their noses against my window pane. They jerk back when they meet my eyes looking back at them with steely resentment. Their attention's drawn because the cottage next door is for sale and they assume that my cottage is part of it. It's not! Mine's bigger. And private!

It's not just walkers reappearing on the footpaths of the Wye Valley and the Forest of Dean. The bikers are back – both those who ride the chicane down into Tintern and the scramblers who go hell for leather along the footpaths and frighten the wildlife.

This could be my last experience of country life. We're still going to sell the cottage. Yes, I know I've mentioned this before. The bathroom's almost finished and the landing is next on the hit list. After that it's the boiler room ceiling. It wouldn't have needed attention if we'd noticed that the bathroom tap connection was leaking.

Don't think I'm selling because of the walkers or even the bikers and scramblers. It's not that at all. Like everything else, we're emerging from our burrow and wanting to spread our wings. Or we're coming out of our nest – once it's presentable – and flying away.

I suppose that like the walkers we're smelling spring in the air and better times to come. I certainly hope so.

A friend of mine made a very astute statement that I think holds perfectly true – you live longer if you always have something to look forward to. That's what I'm always going to do – even when I'm 85.