This year, I shall post occasionally random excerpts on random days from Rosemary Sutcliff’s diary (last year for a while I did daily reproductions). From March 1st 1991:

The day which, most years, means the start of spring to me. But it is such a grey, miserable day and my ears, which I thought recovered from my cold, so bad again, that I don’t feel Spring-like in the least.