As is traditional for September, the minute the summer is over the sun has come out, the days have warmed up and the weather gods have been busy giving us a little taste of what we could have had, had we been generous enough with the goat sacrifices.
Twice this week we’ve woken to glorious clear mornings, glorious enough even to tempt the other half onto his bike, which is pretty much the pinnacle of weather glory. The joy of cycling at this time of year is that everywhere is stuffed full of birds, the summer migrants not yet having departed and the winter not yet having taken its toll on the new fledglings. This morning we cycled through a hedgerow full of flitting, chirping sparrows and every telegraph wire* was adorned with massed swallows. We even had a sky full of seagulls at one point although we were a bit cautious about stopping to watch them swirl with open-mouthed admiration.
But, warm as it is, it’s not quite summer, really, is it? Yesterday morning we even heard the first call of geese in flight and even though the other half reckoned they were probably resident Canadas or Greylags, rather than the returning winter Barnacles, nothing quite says winter’s on its way like the sound of calling geese, just as nothing quite says spring is coming like the first oystercatcher squeaking dementedly overhead.
And this afternoon? As I took my coffee out to the bench at my normal coffee time I spotted this:
The looming shadow of the house already encroaching on my sunny spot…
It really is all downhill from here
* I know they’re not actually telegraph wires, and haven’t been for decades, but they’re still called that, right?