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“It was a day when, if a man travels, he cannot go slowly enough. At anything faster than a foot pace a man seems to lose life as he goes, on a day like this. So quick and prodigal is nature now. It would make of man a pilgrim. Not only daffodils and the wild arums sought notice, but the blue bird's eye tiny in the grass, the pink and intricate ground-ivy flower. In a cleared coppice perfect bright ovals of severance shone on the hazel butts, and told of expert work with a sharp tool.” — Adrian Bell
It was a day when, if a man travels, he cannot go slowly enough. At anything faster than a foot pace a man seems to lose life as he goes, on a day like this. So quick and prodigal is nature now. It would make of man a pilgrim. Not only daffodils and the wild arums sought notice, but the blue bird's eye tiny in the grass, the pink and intricate ground-ivy flower. In a cleared coppice perfect bright ovals of severance shone on the hazel butts, and told of expert work with a sharp tool.