It began — at least it did for me — at Hove, when the cricket season was thick scarves and scalding tea and optimism without stricture. For April makes dreamers of us all. “Good morning, Paul,” said Sam, the tall, rubicund, limitlessly cheerful steward, who is so much a part of that wonderful ground that one might believe his ancestors were on the gate when Duleep almost took Sussex to the title in 1932.
And it ended at Worcester, just before 1pm on Thursday, with handshakes and hugs and all the gentle melancholy one could desire. For September brings out the poets in us. No play was possible on the final day at New Road, although one suspects that some would have been squeezed in