If February finds me reading Jane Austen, March and April typically find me yearning for a little bit more modern British authors. Like P.G. Wodehouse, Rosamunde Pilcher, Agatha Christie. A few days spent reading about weekends in the country, afternoon tea, armfuls of daffodils, the lambing season, wools and tweeds and misty morning walks down green and deserted lanes and I am more than ready for the oftentimes slow in coming, most times downright elusive Wisconsin Spring. And I am also filled with fond reminiscences of the Spring I spent, 8 years ago now, in England and Scotland.