Breakfast Can Wait
So we seem to be having an Indian summer.
An Indian summer, I hear you ask. And what exactly is that?
Well, that’s what I’ve always called it. A period of unseasonably warm weather in the early autumn is what I am talking about and whatever the reason, be it El Nino or global warming or something else equally dramatic, it's been wonderful.
In fact, its been a beautiful end to a glorious summer.
And a continuation of our year of memorable weather.
However, despite the warm days there is an autumnal feel about the place, even though the leaves are not quite dropping and the paths and grass remain clear of the usual photogenic but wet and soggy drifts. There is a bit of a chill in the evenings and disappointingly, the heating has already made a brief appearance in our house.
Whilst very welcome, an Indian summer is no replacement for the real thing, and the temperatures we experienced just a few months ago with balmy nights and almost obligatory al-fresco dining are unlikely to be making a comeback anytime soon. Inevitably, the arrival of our expected wet and windy and very much cooler season is just around the corner.
But this morning, having seen the sun shining through the trees as I drew back the curtains, I took a stroll around the garden before breakfast. Hardly a long walk I know, but the light was intense and the shadows were that little bit longer than before, and I took my time appreciating the colours, shades and patterns all around me. With the flowers now mostly past their best it was the leaves that stood out, back-lit and architectural, a pallet of greens in the purest, artistic sense.
A small and perhaps insignificant start to the day, but welcome none-the-less, despite my stomach telling me different. Long may this relic of summer remain, whatever we chose to call it. We need to appreciate it whilst we can.
And breakfast can always wait.
