Everything's fine, in its season

Seasons matter.

For years England has been deprived of a proper summer. Seven years, some say. Well, this year we had one. 

OK, I appreciate that it would barely register as summer for my sons in Spain, where today the temperature dropped to 33 Celsius (91 Fahrenheit, for the benighted States). Still, by our standards England had a real summer: the skies were often blue, and it tended to be warm most of the time, bordering occasionally on the uncomfortably hot.

Having a summer makes the rest of the year so much more bearable. One can put up with a little harshness in January if one’s had some gentleness in July. 

That was a truth that was borne in on me particularly strongly today.

A fine rain was falling as I walked my dog Janka in one of those areas that redeem the often ugly environment of Luton. A stretch of wooded land follows the river Lea and runs into an old orchard, which someone – perhaps the Council – is trying to bring back to its old use, with new apple trees just now beginning to bear fruit, in among the mature ones.

The presence of such a place is magical, especially as it’s surrounded on either side by housing through which runs a major road to Bedford.

In the gentle softness of Autumn, the fruit is ripening

In that setting, the rain mattered not at all. It was the kind that doesn’t really seem to wet particularly, but instead simply creates an atmosphere of softness. Janka certainly seem unfazed, much more interested in the smells in the undergrowth than bothered by the drops. As for me, I was enjoying the blackberries, each an explosion of flavour this year – they too seem to have liked the summer – and when we arrived at the orchard with its branches weighed down with fruit, a couple of apples too.

So what we were getting was a foretaste of the next season. Autumn isn’t quite here, but it’s coming. The grey light, the cool ground underfoot, the fruit, the silence. The season of mists and mellow fruitfulness is nearly on us.

And that’s fine. Because it’s coming when it ought, after a season that has delivered what it should. So we had no complaints about our walk, Janka or I. On the contrary, we’d had a great time.

Into every life a little rain must fall, they say. But that’s not a problem. As long as it comes in its season.

Instead of just going on and on, as it has for the last seven years, right through the summer months. For Pete’s sake.

Raindrops keep falling
But in a kind, seasonal way

Misty and the season of mists

Our Scottish break kept up its cultural joys for us, when we went into the John Muir house in Dunbar. That’s Muir as in Muir Woods, for those of you more familiar with the joys of California than those of Scotland.

We were there to see our daughter-in-law Senada’s latest creation: silk embroidery of a tracery of branches, displayed on a skylight so that when the sun shines (it happens in August, even in Scotland. Sometimes) it produces a pattern of light that brings a sense of trees – so dear to Muir – into the room, and splashes their shadow on the walls.

In Muir House: Senada's silk creation casts its light on us all

But then the holiday was over and we headed back to find our new little house. The cat, Misty, has now settled in well. He seems as happy as we are to be out of rented accommodation, to the point of having reverted to kittenhood: he’s taking to playing with things again in a way he hasn’t done for years. He also loves the windows, sitting for hours looking out of them. It must give him great satisfaction to know that, with his cat flap, he can get out there when he likes so doesn’t have to until he feels like it.

Misty: a cat will play with anything when he reverts to kittenhood

Not that he’s changed character at all. He still doesn’t come down to eat until I come down in the morning, even though he doesn’t need me to get access to his food. And while he seems perfectly happy with using the cat flap generally, if I’m around he likes me to let him out anyway. So if I don’t react fast enough he shows me his displeasure in the time honoured way, with a gentle swipe of the claws or nip of the teeth.

The other time-honoured tradition that we’re enjoying is the wood fire: we’ve put in a great new stove. Beautiful to see it lighting up the room in the evening.

Glorious. But in August?

Beautiful, that is, until I think that it’s still August (just). How the heck can it be that cold? Last night on the way home from the station I was sorry not to have gloves; this morning in the park with our dog I was sorry not to have worn a heavier jacket.

Oh, well. Autumn’s in the air. We may not have had a summer (unless we count that fortnight in March, and the Olympics), but we’re back on the way towards winter.

Life’s rich patterns, the rolling of the seasons. At least I have the joy of my cat teaching me manners and a fire to cheer the evening. And the memory of beauty in Scotland.