I’m not sure if today–the 23rd–is the first day of autumn, or the last day of summer. Or it may have been yesterday for all I know. Precision in these things is important to astronomers but it doesn’t really matter to me.
It certainly feels like the beginning of autumn. Not in any sense of crossing a boundary, but in terms of light and temperature. It’s a collodion-yellow kind of day, and strikes chilly around the legs. Not long-john weather yet, but certainly time to change to long-legged pyjama bottoms.
Yesterday it rained. All day. Not a dramatic kind of rain, just a continuous drizzle on the rainy side of mist. The branches and eaves dripped in a friendly, reassuring manner, and the drains gurgled as they took it all away. Several times during the day Dolly and I took up our station side-by-side on the back step, and she slipped out once during a lull for a nibble at the big pot of sedge grass, got all damp and demanded to be towelled. Not so much for the sake of drying as for the comfort of a warm towel and a bit of attention.
I’m hoping the leaves will hang on until Graham gets home because I want him to see how the tall trees at the back of the garden have made that end of the house rather dark. That’ll ease my job of persuading him that they need to go or to be heavily pruned back at the very least. Neither one of us like to see trees fall but sometimes the need for light in a house outweighs other considerations. The tall holly tree will not be touched, however. Even if it were not laden with berry, we don’t cut holly trees down. They may make a bit of shade but they do help to keep the witches away and hold the luck in.
Graham says it’s been windy in Somerset but down here in the valley there’s been hardly a whisper. Oh, the wind is there alright, but it runs across the valley, leaping up from the top of the hill to the east and down again to hit the hills to the west, conveniently missing us. Now and again I get the impression that it pauses momentarily overhead, toying with the idea of diving down to stir us up in passing but thinks better of it, reserving that fun for later in the season.
sumer is a’going out
and autumn coming in–
no more bloody cuckoos