Adrian Bell

“March' is a sharp word, brusque and bracing, like its month. 'January', "February'; they meander like rivers; 'April' is like the sound of raindrops on the windowpane; but 'March' is a gust of wind flinging grit.”
― Adrian Bell, A Countryman's Spring Notebook

“Suddenly a little wind stirred the trees: it shivered the fringed fingers of the yews where goldfinches were perching and pecking: then it smacked against the half-open window and the old loose frames muttered in their grooves. A current of air swept through the bedroom, cool from under a grey sky, almost cold. It was refreshing and smelt of freedom. If rocks were alive and breathed, they would exhale just that air, smelling of moss and running water. My bedside book seemed redundant suddenly; the morning's paper even more so. I banished the printed word, lay back and remembered . . .”
― Adrian Bell, A Countryman’s Summer Notebook