The end of summer is turning out to be a chill, wet affair here in my bit of Wales. Trees have begun to shed their leaves but they’re not laying all dry and crisp as autumn leaves ought to be. Far from it, they’re huddling in small drifts, wet and forlorn, waiting to be trodden into a damp, sad mass.
It may be that there will be a turn over to a proper autumn when it finally arrives but I suspect we’ll be thoroughly tired of it all by then, and ready to tackle winter.
There is a beauty in it, a delight in the soft, drifting rain and the mists that cling to the hillsides. Old Welsh guys out in Ceredigion are doubtless pulling out their wet weather coats and caps and settling down to it all. And the sheep, sighing, group together in the lee of the hedges to form steamy, woolly masses.
I’m not ready for that, though, and would like a bit more summer sun yet. Who knows, perhaps we’ll get a late blast of sunny days while it’s high enough in the sky to warm old bones.
I’m not overly hopeful for it, and have today gone through my winter underwear drawer, wondering if perhaps the judicious purchase of several new sets of long-johns might be called for. Some people find ‘em less than attractive, and so did I, not so many years ago. Hey ho. I reckon it’s a sign you’re getting older when you look at a pair of long-johns and think: ”Mmm. Cozy.”
House on the hill
