The late summer bank holiday slips wearily into the past; a fading memory of a few warm days at the end of the summer that never was. The early anticipation of April and May and that glorious TT week on the Isle of Man was followed by rain, more rain and for dessert, torrential downpours leading to flooding in parts of the country.
Of course, it was blamed on global warming, but isn’t everything these days? The Atlantic is more salty; global warming, the Atlantic is less salty; global warming; it rains in the summer; global warming, it is hot in the summer; global warming. The reality is that washed-out summers are a fact of life on these temperate isles; it’s why our countryside is so verdant.
Each year for as long as I can recall I have looked forward in late April as the budding new leaves start to turn the trees green from their winter state with their naked branches stark against the sullen sky, to the warm, friendly foliage and heady scents of summer; clear blue skies punctured by vapour trails, and the sound of the honey bee working the nasturtium; a tantalising promise so often broken. It happens each year and each year is a gamble; will we, this year, just for once get a summer? All too often, the answer is months of disappointment as we note that the rain is warmer but otherwise the skies remain sullen, dark and leaden as summer slips by without fulfilling her destiny. On those spectacular and rare occasions – such as last year – when we get a warm spell that lasts more than a few fleeting days, the British moan in unison about it being “too hot” and they long for the weather to break – oh, and isn’t this another sign of global warming, so we had better do something about our carbon footprints? I refrain tactfully here from telling people what they can do with their carbon footprints.
So September waits in the wings, her entrance fore-shadowed by the languid warmth of late summer evenings with their smouldering charcoal perfume and the crisp, cool dew on the meadow grass in the mornings. There’s a low lying morning mist reminding us of the autumn to come, but before that we have September, mellow and sweet with late summer fruits, September, golden, russet and green, listless and warm. September; summer’s nemesis and winter’s portent. Perhaps, just perhaps, we will be treated to the consolation prize of an Indian summer?