I always relish feeling a bit sad this time of year as the trees imperceptibly turn towards autumn and summer comes to a quiet close. It tends to seep away unlike other seasons which can begin and end quite starkly.
How many summers do we have in our lives? Seventy or eighty if we are lucky and each is different, not just in a climactic sense. This has been rather a wet one filled with pockets of light. But there have been many others that seemed to stretch luxuriantly, generous long days filled with freedom. I will never forget the feeling of being a child at the end of July when the summer holidays seem to stretch out bounteously; days of bare feet on springy grass and beautiful skies.
Coming to the closing days of August used to prompt some deliciously painful nostalgie when i was a child. I would turn and look at the profile of the Welsh mountains, where we holidayed every summer, and be comforted that they would still assume the same contours when I returned from the far-off adventures of a new year in school.
September is always more of a new year than the New Year proper; feet encased in hard leather shoes, slightly too big school uniform, new exercise books.
Why do we hope for a lovely summer every year? Perhaps it is a sort of absolution for those wet, grey days that come and go across the year.


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