Midsummer

So here we are: midsummer’s eve came and went, and the nights are becoming longer by just a matter of seconds with every passing day.

The fields are transformed now: those rippling seas of emerald dotted with the blues and yellows of wildflowers have been cut back, the long piles of grass collected in readiness for winter. The landscape is now one of chartreuse, pistachio and olive. More muted. Watercolours rather than oils.

Tractors have been lumbering up and down the lane constantly this past week, pulling various attachments and trailers to get the job done before the weather turns.

Even under moody skies, there’s a dry heat which has coaxed the later-flowering roses out and they’re blooming and blowing and scenting the air around the pumpkin patch. I collected some lavender to dry out on a sheet of newspaper, and stripped the tiny purple buds which perfumed my fingertips and emitted clouds of fragrance into the kitchen.

The quilt has been cast aside again. Balmy nights require the thinnest of bedcovers, and even they’re usually thrown off at some point in the early hours.

I keep meaning to sit out in the twilight and watch the bats flitting about. There are moths in the garden: little burnished gold cutouts which alight on the leaves for a few seconds before fluttering away again. Red Admirals bask in the sun, alongside tiny studs of crimson and amber - ladybirds, little guardians of the roses and strawberries.

The fennel and dill are almost as tall as I am, with tiny flowers forming within the feathery fronds. Tayberries are ripening to a deep ruby colour; the sunflowers have been tied to twisting old birch poles and the peas have put out flat, translucent pods.

Everywhere, tendrils and stems are winding and reaching out to one another like a thread running throughout the garden.

Umbellifers are coming into their own, too. The cow parsley may be gone but there’s hogweed and wild Angelica: domed clusters of tiny flowers hovering above fibrous stems, filling the wilder meadows with tiny white clouds.

My reading of late doesn’t align with the time of year. Study for Obedience is set - for now - in a spring which seems unable to fully outrun the chill and gloom of winter. Although the pictures I’ve formed in my imagination are more relatable than Yesteryear (which I’m listening to as an audiobook) with its depictions of rural Idaho.

An unnamed northern country - cold, grey, punctuated with pine forests and icy lakes and surrounded by mountains seems somehow more familiar to me. And yet I’m enjoying both books more or less equally.

I’m back at work in the bookshop tomorrow. The temperatures are forecast to soar, and to continue doing so for a few days. It’ll either bring visitors flocking into town or keep most of them away. A lot of people will probably stay in the park, where a café opens through the summer and has an impressive selection of ice creams - choosing just one is always difficult.

Being north-facing, the shop’s cool inside. There’s always that strange, disorienting feeling at the end of the day when you emerge into dazzling light and stifling heat - like leaving a cinema in the afternoon and expecting it to be dark outside.

I’ll walk back along the dusty canal path with narrowboats to my left and the park to my right, where groups of school kids will be lying on the grass.

I find heat tiring; that sensation of being somehow sedated, the air stifling to the point where it feels like you’re breathing the same in and out repeatedly. The June mornings and evenings are magical, though. Tinted clouds and skies washed with gentle colour which fades and deepens as the days begin and end.

It takes me back to being a teenager, sitting on my bedroom windowsill. Horses silhouetted against the apple-green skies of summer, the old tree with its rope swing. The looming presence of the Tor, that flat-topped hill which overlooked everything, and a scattering of stars above.

The current heat makes it feel as though we’re further into the year that we actually are. The shorn fields speak of harvest time; the appearance of fast-swelling hawthorn and viburnum berries whisper of late summer and of autumn’s approach.

Already, we have the first seed heads. Alliums are drifting through the beds, spheres of green pin tacks. The foxgloves are shedding each thimble one by one in readiness to rattle their powder-fine seeds onto the ground.

Yet we still have high summer to come. The riot of saturated colour that dahlias and sunflowers and heleniums bring, daubing the garden with rich shades of magenta and rust, copper and saffron. I plan to head out to the common - a place I used to frequent when we lived closer to it. In August it glows with the reds and purples of fireweed and whinberries. Thistledown floats through the air. The grasses are bleached to shades of bone and flax.

The fact that we’re almost halfway through the year comes as something of a surprise, and I’m not sure why. It still feels early, and yet the frost and darkness of January seem a long way behind.

I’m not in a hurry for autumn, much as I love it. The house right now is filled with pools of sunlight, warm spots where the cats lie, fully stretched, soaking up the heat. The evenings are slow and relaxed. The windows invite cool air inside, the curtains quiver in the breeze.

I sleep wearing a satin eye mask, to block out the early light from our east-facing window. And yet the pleasure of waking up to sunshine is a simple ‘glimmer’ in a troubled world, just like watering the plants at dusk or walking around barefoot.

Cherries are back in season, and I love them. They’re my favourite, closely followed by ripe peaches and raspberries. I prepare salads, slowly and methodically de-seeding, slicing and chopping, lost in my own meandering thoughts. We eat ‘warm weather’ food: tzatziki, Greek yogurt, summer herbs from the planter outside. Soft bread to dip and scoop. Lemon juice in everything.

I’ve painted my nails a deep coral shade, my toes red to match my much-loved Saltwater sandals. I might even do the unthinkable tomorrow and wear a skirt rather than jeans. A long, full, billowing skirt of dark indigo denim with pockets (all skirts and dresses should have pockets). Sunglasses. A T-shirt.

The window for summer dressing here in West Yorkshire doesn’t stay open for long, and it’s a series of several small windows: hot spells here and there rather than a long season of sunshine and heat. And in between: well, the fact that I’ve kept a few jumpers handy says it all.

We’ve been watching Two Weeks in August. Whilst it makes me yearn for Greece, I must admit that I probably couldn’t handle residing there. I’d miss the English seasons too much. I love the small, subtle changes and the anticipation of what’s to come.

Thank you for reading.

Sarah.