Gilbert White takes us back to the future.

Do you ever get that thing where something occurs and there’s a specific person you want to talk to about it? Birds is one of my things. When I see a certain bird I think of two people I’d like to discuss it with; one is a real friend, one an imaginary friend. Or more of a spiritual friend as he is real, but I never met him, as he died about 350 years ago.  The first, my real friend, Dan Kirkpatrick was a bird enthusiast, a genuine one, he actually went birdwatching. I’m more of somebody who watches birds wherever I am, rather than going to a specific place to watch them. I did when I was a kid, thanks to my my mother who would drive us down to an RSPB reserve called Lochwhinnoch near Glasgow, but I don’t any more. Well I go to Highgate Wood, but it’s ten minutes away. Not like going to Norfolk or something.  Luckily I have a garden with lots of birds. And you can watch birds anywhere. This leads me to my spiritual friend/hero, Gilbert White, because without him, there may not be an RSPB, there may not even be birdwatching. I’m sure someone else would have come up with the idea, but he was the pioneer. A curate, a man of the cloth, he was also a nature enthusiast, arguably Britain’s first ecologist. His nature diaries, The Natural History and Antiquities of Selbourne from where he lived in Hampshire are his works and the basis of his legacy.

            More of that later. If time-travel was possible, Gilbert is somebody I would pay to go back and meet. I’m surprised Richard Branson hasn’t mooted the idea of a commercial time machine? Probably because he knows that it’s one thing we’ll never manage. My Latin teacher at school taught me that. Didn’t teach us much else, being “about as effective as a cat flap in an elephant house”, to quote Blackadder the Third. But he did teach us this: travelling back through time is impossible as time is continually moving forward. How to make that jump? Impossible methinks. Thankfully that hasn’t stopped some fine writers imagining that it were possible. The Time Machine by H G Wells, introduced me to the idea. I saw the 1960 film adaptation at the GFT cinema in Glasgow in 1982. It shows its age now but it’s better than the version from 2002. There’s The Planet of the Apes, a ground breaking movie, from 1968. Based on a novel, La Planète des Singes, by a Frenchman, Pierre Boule, it remains one of my favourite films. There’s the fine short story, A Sound of Thunder, written in 1952 by Ray Bradbury, an American Sci-Fi writer. There are, of course, many others. One of the best, is the film, Back to the Future. Like all great films, it’s as good today as it was 33 years ago, if not better, as the darker themes are more prominent to my adult (relatively speaking) sensibility. It took them about six years to get it made. Proof that the world is insane.

            So back to the birds. I’ve had a couple of blackcaps as I do most winters. A pair, a male and a female, coming to the birdfeeders. So what, you say. Or what’s a blackcap? Well, it’s a warbler i.e. a small song bird. Traditionally, it’s a summer visitor, arriving early May, its beautiful song fills the woodlands, proclaiming the arrival of summer. It has a grey body and a black cap. The female has a brown cap, in fact, but womens’ rights didn’t exist when bird names were being handed out. That said, it may purely be aesthetical. Blackcap sounds nicer than browncap. The point is, they’re in my garden. But you said they’re summer visitors? I’m glad you’re paying attention. A modern phenomenon sees them overwintering in southern British cities such as London rather than migrating to say, Spain or West Africa. Global warming you cry. Unlikely. It’s pretty dam cold today. Bird feeders by bird-friendly brits, you suggest. More likely. No-one really knows, though there are theories, like the above and natural selection making certain birds more robust. That theory would seem to have legs. They’re almost as aggressive as the robin around the feeder and the delightful robin being the Begbie from Trainspotting equivalent of the bird world, that is quite something. The robin redbreast is regularly voted Britain’s favourite bird. Additional proof,  as was the case with Brexit that people should do a bit more research before voting. Certainly the blackcaps are very adaptable as they mainly eat insects in summer which are pretty scarce this time of year. What is also interesting is choosing to spend the winter in England rather than Southern Spain or West Africa. As an ex and possibly future ex-pat I find this is a questionable choice.     

           One other visitor has me thinking of my two friends. A redwing. I’ve written of them before. This one has been around for a few weeks. A redwing is a winter visitor, a thrush. Like other thrushes including blackbirds they like worms. And they like a lawn to search for worms. The ground is still relatively soft so that must be providing options. They also like berries and one of my trees has a rich supply which will keep them satisfied if the weather gets colder as it’s threatening to do. Very charming with its red underwings and a creamy line above its eye, what is interesting is that this guy is alone. Normally they fly in flocks. Who knows what his story is?

 One little tip if you want to help out blackbirds and thrushes in the cold weather. They love apples. Chop some up and throw them on your lawn, or yard, but beware that squirrels may have a go at them. I have a spray that repels squirrels but doesn’t bother birds, if you dislike squirrels as much as I do. Not their fault but they must be dealt with. Destructive menaces. Anyway back to the birds, the thrushes will thank-you for the help and you may get the most impressive one of all. The fieldfare, another winter visitor and truly beautiful.

           

Some Christmas wine chat....

             Whatever we say about Christmas, from a culinary perspective there’s certainly some serious fun to be had.  Have you already planned your menu or is someone else planning it for you? Either way I have a few wine thoughts to tempt you with.

            Say we start with a salmon mousse type of arrangement or a mackerel paté. Served on blinis, of course, or on oatcakes is rather fun. For those flavours, I’d suggest a Sauvignon Blanc from the Eastern or Upper Loire in France. Pouillé Fumé and Sancerre are the famous examples but there are others worth seeking out. Menetou Salon, Reuilly and Quincy are neighbouring areas providing that same beautiful crisp acidity at slightly more reasonable prices. Highly recommended. For those of you who think you probably don’t like Sav. Blanc due to the intense gooseberry bombs from Marlborough in New Zealand, don’t fret, this is a different experience, equally delicious with the famous goats’ cheese from the area such as Selles-sur-Cher (that’s my veggie tip). Yum yum yum.

            Now let’s assume you’re having turkey. You may not be, of course. I had pheasant in recent Christmases, one as as turkey is too big, two, I like pheasant and three, it’s cheap and roams around a bit more in quaint, leafy England, before being shot. But you probably are having turkey and why not. Turkey is delicious. Now, will you have white or red? You can have either really though red would probably be the experts’ choice.  With a roast turkey christmas dinner there are lots of flavours apart from the bird. Cranberry, stuffing, sprouts, rich, salty roasties and so on. For white, I‘d suggest a big chardonnay. Rich and oaky with good freshness and acidity too, in order to stand up to all those flavours. A rare treat would be Limoux in southern France which does fantastic examples, or South Africa does some delightful food-friendly Chardonnay, notably from the Western Cape. Margaret River in Western Australia also would be a good bet.  

            If you’re more inclined to red, as I would be, California or New Zealand Pinot Noir could be a good place to start, if you like the big new world flavours.  Burgundy, my favoured location for the sensual wonder that is Pinot Noir, may be dominated by the sharpness of the cranberry sauce, whereas the New World Pinots have more weight and depth of fruit. New Zealand can be procured for less money – still quite a lot though - but Californian Pinots are worth investigating if you’re happy to plunder your overdraft. Personally, I’d go for a European, something a bit more restrained. Maybe a high quality Beaujolais – no, that’s not a contradiction in terms – such as a Morgon or a Moulin-a-Vent or or a Côtes-du-Rhône named village such as Cairanne or Séguret or even a Rioja Reserva. Or less obvious, how about a Zweigelt, unique to Austria, medium-bodied with enough fruit, spice and acidity to match the turkey and trimmings.            

Some other reds worth discovering this Christmas and after, would include Saperavi. Saperavi is from Georgia. Yes, Georgia, on the Black Sea near Russia, that’s right. Caviar comes from there. I don’t know much more about Georgia but discovering this wonderful wine makes me want to. Too much for turkey – big and rich with strong tannins  - it would be a great match for beef or venison. Or how about Aglianico from south-west Italy. A similarly powerful red, with added minerality from the volcanic soils, it’s wonderful with dark meats or strong cheeses. Wine is about discovery. Voyages of discovery to places that you don’t need to spend a fortune visiting. Just spend twenty quid, drink a glass and imagine these beautiful lands where grapes have been grown for thousands of years.

As for dessert, there would have to be some kind of chocolate involved, as far as I’m concerned. Pedro Ximenez from south-west Spain is a dark, sweet sherry, reminiscent of chocolate raisins. It’s recommended poured over ice cream though ice cream is not particularly Christmassy. If you want to save the waistline, just drink it - chilled - on its own. The sherry that is, thanks to my editor for that one. The fascinating Icewine or Eiswein is also a thing of miraculous qualities. Produced in Canada, Germany and Austria, primarily, it has a unique genesis. When temperatures drop below a certain level, around minus eight, I believe, the grapes are picked and crushed frozen. The result is an acidity of astonishing intensity and very concentrated sweetness. Less cloying than classic dessert wine like Sauternes it is, again, a wine to be discovered, but it’s not easy to find and not cheap. Also, unusually, it comes in red and white. Maybe start saving up for next Christmas on that one...

Christmas again! At least, we have a choice...

“It’s Christmas time, there’s no need to be afraid…” as Paul Young once sang. It’s true there are lots of things to be afraid of at the moment, or at least worried about. So much negativity, mediocrity, anger and hysteria Etc. so we probably need Christmas more than ever. Christmas, ideally in the Christian sense of peace, love and compassion or at least those great Crimbo songs from the 1970's. What we're more likely to get, however is people dressing in ridiculous costumes - one guy I saw, seemed to be dressed up in a baby suit covered in baubles and tinsel - people getting drunk at office parties, tacky light displays outside our houses, offending the eyes of anyone with a modicum of aesthetic judgement and the usual tasteless circus that is modern Christmas. We can also go to a carol concert or we could help feed homeless people. Good, spiritual things happen at Christmas too. I don’t tend to do either of these two things, though I wish I did. Point is, we have a choice. I often feel guilty at being a bit self-indulgent and lazy at this time of year, rather than helping my fellow man. At least I don’t offend my neighbours and contribute to global warming with a flashing reindeer outside the house.

I can think of many reasons for which I’d like to have a time machine. One would be to travel to mid 17^th century England and bring back a Puritan type to see what they made of modern Christmas. I fear the horror might be too much for them. You see, the Puritans (Oliver Cromwell et al,  today’s equivalent of the DUP or Daily Mail readers minus the boozing and wife-swapping) banned Christmas, or rather the celebrating of Christmas. They felt it would be much better to spend time in quiet contemplation, praying for the salvation of one’s soul, being, as we are human, prone to sinfulness. What a bunch of killjoys. They did the same in Scotland, even earlier. “Dreary pricks” as Billy Connolly once described them. The banning of revelry had other reasons too. The Puritans, not being too keen on Catholics, also wanted to erase any evidence of Catholicism’s existence. Mass etc., hence Christ-mas, so it was partly political but also, clearly, because they were “dreary pricks”.

When Cromwell died and England decided they didn’t like him after all, they invited the Catholic monarch, Charles the 2^nd, whose father’s head they had chopped off, to take the throne. Can never quite make their minds up, the English.  Charlie boy, grandson of James the Sixth of Scotland and First of England, for whom the term “party animal” was probably invented, quickly shook things up. Partying and producing illegitimate children left right and centre, he took a salacious revenge on those fun-hating puritans and of course laughter at Christmas was re-instated. Quite what he would have made of modern Christmas, who knows, but I suspect he wouldn’t ban it, except perhaps the playing of Christmas music in shops in October. Well that’s what I would do…And if it came down to choosing between a puritan Christmas and today’s then fetch me a Reindeer hat and a baby suit covered in tinsel anytime. On second thought…In any case, I feel grateful for the agony of choice.

With the passing of Topsy it really is a Black Friday

        There are dog people and there are others, right?! Some people just don’t get what the fuss is all about. It’s fair enough. There are cat people, too. There are reptile people. There are people who keep scorpions and stick insects as pets. I wonder if they grieve as much for their deceased scorpion or stick insect as I have this week for the loss of Topsy. She was eleven years old. I’d known her since she was a tiny puppy. My mother, Kate, living in the south of Spain, took her from a friend who had taken in a little stray dog which had subsequently given birth to ten pups. Initially rejected by someone else for not being “pretty enough” my mother and Topsy “found” each other and it was, I suspect, love at first sight. Certainly devotion at first sight from this little pup who would be named Topsy. A vibe that can’t be explained. It just is. Ex-pats in Spain understandably get a bad rap at times, but we forget the work some of them do in saving and re-homing stray dogs. Granted, it’s not generally the ones with skin like lobsters who drink beer or scotch for breakfast who are doing the good work. In any case, it’s an entire industry of benevolence, but I digress. She was a tiny, little, black bundle of fur. A mix of Lurcher and Spanish hunting dog, she grew up quickly and was, until relatively recently, a true athlete. Fast and agile. But she was first and foremost a great personality. Cheeky, intelligent, sneaky at times, especially when it came to food or the sofa, fun loving, low maintenance and utterly devoted and giving. Her vibe calmed the room.

            My first real memory of her is of around ten years ago, when spending some time in Sotogrande, Spain, as I was, I returned to the house to find her hanging helpless, upside down by one leg on some wire. I don’t what she’d done but my mobile phone was broken, there were magazines, knitting needles and cushions scattered everywhere (it wasn’t my house, it was Kates). This is no ordinary dog, I remember thinking. Slightly insane perhaps, but one of a kind. I think she grew into herself. That early madness and boisterous energy seems like a long time ago.  Christmas of 2010, I was going out to spend a week on my own with her at the family Finca in the mountains. I missed my flight and couldn't get another. Topsy had to spend a week on her own in her kennel outside, in the wind and rain. Someone fed her but she was alone. That was my first memory of being aware of loving this dog. I was worried, upset and angry with myself. She had also just lost her friend,

our other dog, Honey in horrific circumstances, a month before. I guessed she would be fine, just a bit lonely and cold for a week, but it was a terrible feeling. She brought that emotion out in me, as dogs do. A maturation, if you like.

            She came to London in 2015 - via an unorthodox route, including being pointlessly quarantined in Calais, due to the incompetent and twisted machinations of the shameless spiv who had been paid to bring her over – to be with Kate who was living in London at the time. She spent the summer here. She adapted perfectly, charming everyone she met; people in the street, in the pub, in the school where Kate worked, with my young nephew who would walk her.

            In the last year, tragically, she’d been very ill at times. Emaciated, with tumours eating away at her, the prognosis was very poor but with the help of a pioneering treatment called Bicom Bioresonance - which I can’t claim to understand but I intend to try – and her indomitable spirit she lived longer and better - and without pain killers - than anyone, vets included, had imagined. One more anecdote sums up her spirit. Back in the summer, Kate was driving back, late at night to the village. Coming up the hill she was confronted by a pair of eyes. Those eyes accompanied her, alongside the car back up the hill to to the house. The eyes belonged to Topsy, who on hearing the car’s engine had jumped down the ten-foot high garden wall and made her way towards the car to welcome her back. All this while at death’s door. A truly extraordinary spirit. A lesson in giving unconditional love and joy. I hope if her soul goes somewhere it goes into a future powerful politician or the like. That strength and spirit should not be wasted. The world is in dire need of more of those vibes. She was more than just a dog, more than just a little scruffy mutt. She was Topsy. I’ll stop now, my glasses are steaming up.

A Man For All Seasons...

I think it’s fair to say that we tend to think about colour when we think of autumn. Colour is always with us, so presumably as green leaves turn to red, it is the contrast – striking and beautiful – that gains our attention. Pumpkins and squash appear in supermarkets with their intense reds and oranges. Berries appear on trees with similar fiery colours. Lawns and pavements turn brown and red with fallen leaves. Some people like to ‘kick against the pricks’, I prefer kicking autumn leaves along the street. Pure therapy. I retain a memory – from so long ago that I don’t know when it was – of being knee-deep in leaves and kicking them along Kelvin Way in Glasgow’s West End.

Yet, actually, all seasons, when you think about it, are about colour. In spring, we’re grateful for any colour that appears. Pink blossom, for example, always thrills. In summer it’s green as the trees burst into bloom. It’s warm sunsets, it’s fruit and flowers on trees. Even winter has colours, usually grey, but frosty whites and crisp blue skies, ideally. There’s a fine film called A Man for All Seasons. It’s based on a book about Thomas More. In case you don’t know, Thomas More was a mate of Henry the Eighth, until Henry decided to have his head chopped off. I always liked the title. I suspect it might be ironic. More was a principled man. I like to think of myself as a man for all seasons though in a more literal way. I like the four seasons of our climate. I also like Frankie Valli’s band, the music by Vivaldi (well, a little) and the pizza too. However, let’s stick to the topic. I love autumn and its aforementioned colours and atmosphere. Equally evocative are the first misty mornings, the first cold evenings when you can see your breath, the melancholy and wistful call of the Robin red breast at night. All of these are special. They can’t entirely take away the loss of summer but you have to embrace the changes. Be a man or woman for all seasons, literally and metaphorically, if you can manage. I’m trying that.

            It is, thus, with a certain pleasure and a certain amusement that my garden remains partly dominated by summer colours. The weather’s been pretty good, it is a sun trap, and there’s not been much rain, so certain flowers remain in bloom and the colours are stubbornly representative of summer. Purples, yellows, pinks, whites and blues. Red from the few tomatoes, which is definitely a summer red. The yellow rose is in amazing shape. Literally reaching out to touch the sky. The stubbornness of nature is wonderful, despite autumn being undoubtedly in the ascendancy. There’s even still the odd bee, and the odd wasp flying around. Stubbornness is actually unfair, it has a negative sense. Let’s credit her with a Quaker-like discipline. Let’s say ‘strike while the iron is hot’, ‘make hay while the sun shines’, even “when ze cat’s away, Mister Fawlty” to quote Mrs Peignoir. Nature once again remains an inspiration and a teacher.

Tapas anybody?

Tapas has become very trendy hasn’t it? Lots of things have become very trendy, particularly regarding food and drink. It makes sense in a way. Britain invented trendy, a guy called Beau Brummel. And the food and drink culture was in a pretty dire state till quite recently. Personally speaking, I don’t care much for trends, maybe because I doubt the sincerity but enough polemics. Back to tapas. I was lucky enough to recently spend ten days in southern Spain, Western Andalucia, to be precise. Seville, Ronda and a tiny village of two hundred people in the shadow of magnificent mountains.  Like many of us, until relatively recently - about 1999 - I thought of southern Spain as sun, sea and sangria. Tacky Brits with skin like lobsters, drinking beer and eating calamari. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it’s limiting. There’s more to life and there’s more to southern Spain. A whole lot more. A unique place, partly due to the Arabic influence on the architecture and the cuisine, partly due to the geography, the proximity to Africa, partly due to the intense heat and climate.

            And the food is equally impactful. Lunchtime, inside an authentic tapas bar

is a memorable experience, for me, one of the greatest culinary experiences. There really is something in escaping the blue skies and searing heat, it feels almost furtive. There’s plenty of time to eat outside, later in the day, when the sun has gone down. You start with a cerveza. Ice cold, Cruzcampo, ideally, made in Seville. It doesn’t last long. Then tapas frias, cold tapas. Ensalada Rusa, Russian salad, apparently named after a Russian fellow who came to Spain, invented it and took the recipe to his grave. Made fresh every day, there’s potato, mayo, sometimes egg, usually tuna and always grated carrot. One we had included little chunks of sweetcorn. And there’s the salad of Pulpo. Octopus sometimes done in a similar way, sometimes in a more classic salad; tomato, onion, peppers and so on. Boquerones, small white anchovies in vinegar, garlic and parsley. That’s got things started so let’s go for some hot. Albondigas. Mini meatballs, usually made from pork, in sauce; tomato or almond. Croquetas. Meat filled balls deep-fried in breadcrumbs. One of our favourite places does them with mushrooms.  A delightful little bar in a small town called Cortes. Intense blue skies contrasting with the white buildings. A hot wind blowing through the narrow streets. Classic Andalucia. The delightful patron, Alphonso, always welcomes you with a smile. He, or rather his talented wife, does the aforementioned albondigas in almond sauce, the less common of the two. Pure exalted pleasure. They also do another classic; Flamenquine, cheese wrapped in ham, again done in breadcrumbs. I consider it my local, ever though I only manage to visit a few times a year.

Another of our favourite places, a hectic, crazy bar in Ronda - a tourist town with an extraordinary bridge over a deep gorge, surrounded by spectacular mountians - into which the odd bemused tourist strays, does a black-pudding sandwich. Doesn’t sound like much but believe me, it is. Spanish Morcilla as they call it, is spicy and sweet, probably due to that Spanish marvel, Paprika. It also serves a plate of sharp crisp lettuce, served with white wine vinegar. Simplicity is the key. Then there’s the fried fish. In another place we had Hake - so beloved of Michelin Starred chefs in London - deep fried. As a man from Glasgow, I like things deep fried (just don’t mention Mars Bars, a dull cliché). And in Andaucia they know how to fry. There’s Camarones, like a deep fried prawn pancake. The list goes on. Harder to find, but recommended is Cauliflower with paprika! There’s quail’s eggs in vinegar. There’s the extraordinary Garbanzos con Espinica. Chick peas and Spinach. A wondrous legacy bequeathed by the Arabs to southern Spain using spices such as cumin. There’s Solomillo, pork in a whisky sauce. Both these dishes are specialities of Seville. And so much more…

 It’s ultimately often simple stuff but the flavours are so good, the atmosphere so unique, that it’s perfect. Little Andalucian men in hats, skin like leather, shouting in their almost incomprehensible dialect. Spanish mothers with their noisy babies drinking ice cold beer. Completely in the moment, no showing off, no looking over your shoulder. Even in classy and more fashion-conscious Seville, most people are happy ensconced in the olfactory pleasures of the moment. Beau Brummel would have hated it. As for further drink, if you don’t want another beer, have a sherry. A Fino or a Manzanilla, salty and tangy. Perfect to wash down the fried goodies. Unlike Frasier and Niles Crane, I only drink Sherry in Spain.

I feel sorry, in a way, for the people who spend a fortune in trendy and pricey Tapas bars up and down the country. I think it’s great that our modern cuisine options are so varied but when when you’ve been fortunate enough to have access to the real thing for so long…

Smugness is also a modern affliction, no chance of that here, just pure gratitude. Mucho Gracias, by the way.

Wee bit of french poetry and a white rose made my day....

Dedicated to my late friend, Daniel Kirkpatrick who left us on this day 5 years ago...

"Comme on voit sur la branche au mois de mai la rose,
En sa belle jeunesse, en sa première fleur,
Rendre le ciel jaloux de sa vive couleur,
Quand l’Aube de ses pleurs au point du jour l’arrose". Pierre de Ronsard 1524-1585

            For the uninitiated amongst you, Pierre De Ronsard was a renaissance poet. I'm sure Dan knew about him. He wrote beautiful poetry about many things, including nature. Dan would have liked that. Very famous at the time, he was the equivalent of a rock star in his era, though better behaved. He even wrote a poem to his love Marie, “quand vous serez bien vielle”, "when you are very old" – that was of similar sentiment to The Beatles “When I’m sixty-four”. Why am I going on about some poet from five hundred years ago? Well, he wrote the two quotes that inspired today’s blog. He also knew Mary Queen of Scots, regarded her highly - more than most Scots did - and sang her praises in verse. I realize May has long gone but May this year was so beautiful and my roses are still blooming (just) so Pierre’s lovely words seemed apt.

Chilly mornings. The first red leaves on the trees. Berries appearing. A change of mood, of vibe. Another summer has gone. There may well be some more warm days, but summer is no more. One minute it was here, announcing itself in early May with hot days and glorious blue skies and the promise that early summer brings. And – August aside - it didn’t disappoint. Nature reacted in kind; swifts thundering through the blue skies, bats silently speeding past on warm evenings in their fleeting manner, random, colourful insects appearing at the table, late at night. Then, in seemingly an instant, it’s gone. I love summer. I love all the seasons for their unique characteristics, but summer's passing is undoubtedly the saddest for me.  It comes and goes with ruthless abandon. Not really appearing fully till late May – psychologically at least - when everything is suddenly green, June and July pass so very quickly. Very hot this year until August when blue skies became the exception rather than the rule of the previous three months. However, this is not a lament, more a celebration, with a hint of sadness that I can never quite shake.

With Autumn’s imminent arrival, there’s plenty of life in the garden. The buzz and hum of insects has mostly gone –  though warm days will see more buzz - but the birds are full of activity and numbers. The great tits and the goldfinches have produced a second brood of youngsters. And most of the other garden birds are fairly conspicuous, including blue tits, dunnocks, blackbirds and the robin. An exception being the little wren which I haven’t seen or heard. The continued appearance of one or two stray bees serves as a reminder of the joys of summer, and most, though not all, of the flowers remain full of vim and vigour.

So it’s not all doom and gloom. Autumn is a wonderful season; of colour, mist and atmosphere and the dastardly mosquitoes will soon be gone, but early September is a kind of no-mans' land between the two, so the best we can hope for is some warm sunshine to bask in.

Nature'

s changing seasons are like dogs. They remind us or help us to be in the moment. Don’t lament summers passing, relish the pleasure it gave but don’t lament it. I’m saying that to myself. Nature doesn’t stop. Life continues. Nothing is permanent. And one day you’ll be sixty-four or seventy-four or eighty-four…. As Ronsard also wrote “Cueillez, dès aujourd’huy, les roses de la vie…”, "Gather from today, the roses of life".

Bloody gardening metaphors again.