The cut of the grass, the shine of a boot, the sigh of a drop, the joy of a catch, the crunch of a four, the hope of the spring. Time stealthily gouging out lines, on faces, over scars, around knees. A first season. A last.
Here, suddenly, is April, unexpectedly sunny and dry. And with it, 135 years after the first County Championship (minus one year for Covid, four for world war one and six for world war two), the 125th.
