Distant Days.

You’re sitting in your little cell of an old house late on a chill November night, the mist and wetness without insinuating its unwholesome influence on the air within, when you read George Elliot’s words in describing Adam Bede’s walk to his day’s labour on a June morning:

And perhaps there is no time in a summer’s day more cheering than when the warmth of the sun is just beginning to triumph over the freshness of the morning – when there is just a hint of early coolness to keep off languor under the delicious influence of warmth.

And you remember those far off days of youth when the urge to sit in quiet contemplation by some glassy lake or deep running river, rod in hand and the prospect of a dipping float keeping your pulse at the ready, drew you out on just such a morning. You remember the bus ride, the steady walk along empty lanes, the climbing of stiles or gates, the crossing of verdant fields, and the tackling up when the destination was reached. You remember the fading traces of dew on the grass, and the sweet scent of fresh water, and the high white clouds scattered thinly across the blue mantle to augur a fine prospect.

Such are the summer-strewn treasures contained within that musty bag of memories, brought out for perusal when the autumn of the year and the autumn of a life sinks the mind into the mire of inevitable mortality.