'...the air was like a drug. One could walk all day without getting tired and sleep for eight or nine hours at a stretch without stirring. Everything spoke of sleep. The long, low hills looked like bolsters and pillows, the dogs yawned when they tried to bark and even the cockcrows, though they began well, ended in a snore. Only the flowers were awake. They gleamed and sparkled in the clear light like that which one sees rippling under the surface of chalk streams - the light of a subaqueous world, thick, watery yet infused with drowsiness.'
from Personal Record, 1920 - 1972 by Gerald Brenan (Chapter 24)
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