The Same View: July

We're only three days into the forty, but so far folklore has held true.  The weather's been positively wintry this weekend: wet and blustery and cold.  I had to fight the wind to take this photo - wrapped up in my fleece coat and hat.

Such are the joys of a British summer!  And so I give you July...

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Summer Rain

It’s St. Swithin’s Day.

Folklore has it that rain today means 40 days of bad weather to follow.

Looks like we’re in for it, then. Because, boy, did it rain today!

Summer Picking

So if you read my last post - and given that this is July - you’ve probably imagined me wandering the moors, wicker basket or plastic tub in hand (depending on how romantic your imagination), fingers stained purple as I gaily go a-bilberrying.

Alas…..no! Sorry to deny you your pastoral daydream, but the sad truth is that there are no bilberries this year. At least, you have to search very diligently to find any. And when you do come across an occasional one, you can guarantee it’ll be pitifully small (as if normal bilberries weren’t tiny enough). And probably rather wizened.

Blame the rain. Or the lack of it. We’ve had an astonishingly long dry spell. Which has done nothing to swell the grain….or the fruit.

I’ve seen the odd foraging party out in recent days, hopefully brushing apart the bilberry stems. But they’ll have to pick long and hard and with enormous dedication to muster anywhere near enough for a pie this year. In fact, you could garner the berries from an entire moor and still not have enough.

So…..the few spare specimens there are will likely escape the jam-makers and pastry chefs this time around. That means they’ll be left for the birds and for opportunist walkers like me…..reaching out a hand as I amble by for a momentary taste of summers past.

Which doesn't sound so very bad after all.

When a Walk's not a Walk

Question: When is a walk not a walk?

Answer: Most of the time.

Joss and I purport to ‘walk’ twice a day. In truth, it’s a euphemistic term; almost always a disguise for something else.

Often, a walk becomes a photo shoot as I snap away, capturing the changing landscape and anything else of interest we happen upon.

Sometimes a walk is a chance to think or meditate or pray. Sitting on rocks is good for this.

In July and September, walks frequently turn into fruit-picking expeditions, as first the bilberries, and then the blackberries, swell juicy and shiny and dark.

Once a week, a walk is actually an excuse to visit our neighbour, Carol, who lives further along our strung-out village. Her cat, Misty, always obligingly leaves a few scraps in her food bowl for Joss to polish off. And, if we’re lucky, Amy and Hannah who live a few doors away will be there after school; and we’ll all talk and laugh and play while Carol cooks pancakes on the stove.

Some of the best walks are about dashing off to witness the excitement of new life. At the moment, we have piglets and puppies and ducklings to entertain us.

But today’s walk was just an opportunity to sit in the heather on the dry, dry earth and stretch out my legs in the sun. Which isn’t really a walk at all.

But then they rarely are.

The Scent of Summer

A honeysuckle grows by our back door. It’s the only plant relic of the garden that existed before we moved here.

It thrives in this shady spot, growing rampant and flowering prolifically. It billows around a trellis frame; it reaches up and across the moss-covered roof; it spills over the side of the dry stone wall. The bees adore it.

Each night I walk up the lane at dusk, having put the hens to bed. And the deep, saturated perfume comes rushing to embrace me while I’m still some distance from the house. In the gathering darkness, the pale pink blooms take on a pearlescent shimmer.

It’s so outrageously beautiful. Flamboyant with its blossoms, profligate with its scent. That intoxicating scent. That scent that spells summer.