There’s a sense of summer passing as I walk about the farm and fields. The sun shines but there’s a coolness in the air, a crispness from the north. The barley in the field up on the hill (I think it’s barley,) once so shiny and vibrant in a breeze, now looks white and brittle as if a stiff wind might break the etiolated stalks in half. The thistles and dandelions, formerly so colourful, are dying down to brown with tufts of seed heads ready to fly off in a gust of wind. The mushrooms have come and gone once but the fairy circles are still evident on the grass and may well burst into life again when weather conditions are right.

Yet the end of summer is also harvest time. There are sloes and rose hips in the hedges, along with the elder berries and blackberries. The orchard is full of heavily laden apple trees. I’ve eased the burden on one bough, almost breaking, as it touched the ground…. There is an apple crumble – one small corner missing – waiting on the Aga for Lily when she comes home from work. And there are some blackberries, washed and now frozen, waiting in my freezer for some time hence when it will be cold outside and I’ll remember there are blackberries waiting to be baked in a pie; and I’ll think fondly of the day that I took Inca and Malachi with me up the hill to the blackberry bushes. I daresay I will remember it as a warm day but one of the last days of summer nonetheless.