"The season of colds, which ran all the way through to the end of February, started in November, when the magical, golden enchantment of autumn days (the wine of the seasons, when the year held its breath at the approach of frost and fire) turned into the raw damp of the back end of the year."
The Hawk and The Dove by Penelope Wilcock
It's about time to pull this book out for the annual re-read. For the record: I love the raw damp of the back end of the year. It is my focal point during the labor of the brown, dusty, hot hills in July and August. I eagerly await and love the wet, cold, gray days. As many as the year can hand me. I have yet to test my love of the damp in the northwest, or my love of the cold and gray in the northern and colder regions of our country, but the wet and cold days that California dishes out in its "worst" years are never enough for me.