Twilight is very precious to me, but the quality of twilight
is a major marker of the waxing and waning of the year. August in the UK is the month when fecund summer is
losing its grip and sliding inexorably towards frigid winter. I love twilight,
but only when the transition is long, the breeze balmy, and the air filled with
the flitting of hungry bats and diaphanous moths. When twilights grow gloomy, I
grow gloomy.
I hate winter with a passion. Winter is constant torture to
me. And spring is nearly always disappointing because the growth of light and
heat is too slow and too erratic to suit my impatient spirit. When autumn comes
I run on an undercurrent of anxiety, however beautiful the sight of decay might
be to most people’s eyes, because I know what’s coming next.
Summer is my time; summer is my season. The smell of new-mown hay, the crack of willow on leather, the cool breezes when the sun is high
and the warm ones when it rests, the azure lakes when the sky is blue and the
fishes’ joy when summer showers refresh their realm, the birdsong at dawn and
the scent of flowers at noon, al fresco meals and bare ladies’ legs reminding
me that life, too, was once full summer.
* * *
I have one of those magical slugs in my kitchen tonight –
the now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t type. Where has it gone? Ah, there it is. I
must be careful not to tread on it for both our sakes. It’s the rain which
brings them out, but where they get in remains a mystery.
* * *
Nearly time for scotch and music. Or maybe I’ll listen to
somebody from the New World enumerating the various delights and frustrations
of visiting, or living in, England.
‘They have no power points in their bathrooms,’ complained
one.
‘One of the things which most shocks Americans is how
beautiful the English countryside is,’ enthused another.
Is it? I’ve never noticed.
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