Dear July...
where were your whispers, where were your songs...
Hot chilli peppers in the blistering sun…
Was that the thunder that I heard?
My head is vibrating, I feel a sharp pain
Come sit by me, don't say a word
Oh, can it be that I am slain?
— Bob Dylan - Romance in Durango
Dear friends, readers, writers and all who are curious enough to stop to read my letter as you pass by… welcome to A coloured Month.
The month of July was extreme, at times verging on otherworldly, delivering 31 of the most random days imaginable, with a difference in temperature that would shock the hardiest wild soul.
Up to that point I shivered through what should have been balmy summer evenings, wrapped in fleecy clothes, refusing to succumb to ‘stove’ and its newly blackened cast quietly beckoning from its winter seat.
A fire in July? No, absolutely no!
And then, because adding further to the misery of multiple frustrations caused by endless administration after the storm tickled her sense of mischief, Mother Nature sent a heatwave…
Gathering the joy of uncluttered hours…
July always begins with a honey and rose tinted lightness of spirit; a once a year, much longed for conscious reflex in the shape of an audible intake and slow release of breathe at the onset of summer holidays.
Eight weeks of empty days to shape as I please.
But I breathe out too soon…
After the storm — from nowhere…
White heat melts the cool I have grumbled about constantly both inside my usually comfortable home and out. The shade of leafy woodland, even, holds no promise of respite, feels clammy, uninvitingly humid, as if I need waders when all I dream of is bare, feral feet. Almost overnight the temperature climbs to dizzying heights, mind numbing lethargy settles upon my shoulders and I wilt with, and as fast as, everything around me. Such sudden, unaccustomed heat after weeks of unseasonably fresh, damp air holds me in vice like jaws, coherent thoughts drip as the humidity wraps around my mind, a sluggish, sticky fog like void, thick with unseen moisture that hangs heavy in the stillness. My feet and arms feel like lead, as if with each step I am sinking deeper into soft earth.
I am limpid with heat, devoid of useful emotion except perhaps another sigh…
“Scattered wits take a long time in picking up.”
― Charles Dickens,
I am certain I am not alone in harbouring great expectations for the summer holidays, which makes the disappointment an all the more heavy and debilitating cargo to carry when anything unanticipated lands. An uninvited guest, leaving debris in their wake and the time lost irretrievable.
Just as Dickens’ Pip grapples with the disparity between his lofty dreams and the often harsh realities he faces, this July my own expectations for summer holidays follow a similar tragic arc. I envision sun-soaked days of adventures and relaxation, only to find that the reality is so far removed as to be unrecognisable. Plagued from the beginning by the continuation of March days — month five — that unexpected, horrific hail storm and all the mind curdling administrative mundanity it induced, the dream — my own — of something grand and transformative was no more real than my dream of owning a Citroen DS - this one, not todays equivalent! I was left reeling with a profound sense of melancholy and the bittersweet understanding that expectations, whether in literature or life — or cars — can sometimes lead to a poignant sense of disillusionment.
White heat… white light, all contours of the landscape liquify into undulations of sultry heatwaves, my hill, the horizon I know and love so well evanesce.
My joy, so quickly ignited, smoulders, moodily.
Natures remedy.
I am not myself. I can’t breathe. A feeling of wearing the wrong clothes, any clothes and associated discomfort have a catalytic effect I am incapable of shedding without breathing again.
Knowledge of the human heart is the erudition of wanderers.
From somewhere, nowhere perhaps, this phrase undulates constantly, so I wander, aimlessly, when no one else is wandering, at an hour when likely, few are even wondering.
And, oh but the shimmering dawn light is beautiful. Humidity and gathering heat harmonising in an ephemeral holding of elemental hands. I escape into each light filled, cool morning breathing in and out, in and out. Slowly, finally, an almost imperceptible sigh of contentment escapes, a shedding of unwanted vestments. I am stepping on whispers of summer promises and the breezes whisper back…
In search of summer’s song…
The meadows are silent — though they are filled with endless swaying wild oats and flowers.
The crickets and grasshoppers that I wrote of in June;
are quiet because they are not there. The buzzing of bees also is gone. There are few butterflies, my favourite common blue, absent entirely.
I feel all the armfuls of calm gathered each morning gradually departing, replaced by, far less agreeably, fear. The sounds that epitomise the very soul of summer are all silent. Whispery flutterings of wings, catch my eye only by virtue of their limited presence. I hear quite plainly the courtship choruses of cicada hidden in trees, golden oriole, blackbirds, treecreepers, woodpeckers all are chirruping. But there are frighteningly few insects.
I spend restless hours searching for notes in forgotten fields and meadows, those too difficult to access and left fallow but they too are silent and still. The weight of sadness and uncertainty feels, once again, too great a load to bear. Am I strong enough to stand witness to a future, on this hill I love to the very bone of me, gradually turn to a barren wasteland devoid of all life?
A deep sadness, once again, seeps into a body already too burdened with the weight of knowing.
Lighter moments, different songs…
Summer days for my fifteen year old can be long, filled with boredom and stagnant hours. Especially when melting heat restricts everything too physical. Living so far from his friends he plonks himself in his den1 and practices total inertia in front of three screens, whittles it to a fine art only leaving for food at far too regular intervals through a clatter of loud music which rattles around the house, shaking floors and windows. Thankfully he has good taste — mostly!
But, I worry about the time he is spending without movement. I make a proposal to him which, surprisingly, he agrees to; perhaps not with excitement a forethought but ten thousand steps, at least, are to be achieved every day. He has one condition, that I accompany him and he is allowed to play his music. Music, while I walk…? I reluctantly agree, I love him, he’s a good kid, concessions are made on both our parts.
Hence, every day through July, after our evening meal we walk, at speed — he is tall, he moves like a gazelle — with his tinny music muffled by pockets, with Wolfie and Sassy in tow. It has been an experience… mostly a very good experience, I now know everything there is to know about his Mobylette, various classic cars I’ve never even heard of and every detail of the complicated workings inside his computer tower, though I still have no idea how this information will help me. The only negative is Sassy has to be carried home again, which she hates but refuses to move if she is put down! And, I am not certain I will ever see my hare, or indeed, any wild animal again. They hear his songs from miles away!
With love and wishes to all for more gentle August days…
A quick note; due to lack of internet connection for over three weeks (imagine horrified emoji) I have read far less than I usually do through July. My apologies to all. As of this morning we are now reconnected to a world of WiFi so I will make up for an absence in recommendations in my next post, which will be my 100th!
And, don’t forget if you subscribe during this, my sixtieth year, my special offer still stands for anyone who can spare a few pennies each month. And if you can’t, well I’m happy to find you here anyway but please remember to tap the little heart at the bottom and join in the comments in you would like to — this helps to get me noticed
Seths den is a room he designed himself, spent six months building a computer tower powerful enough to cope with programs that were useless on a laptop then salvaged screens and other necessities for optimum game playing ability. He was fourteen years old. I would not have been in agreement with even the concept of this space except that he had little to no help in its engineering, it cost nothing and I set a few rules which he abides by except in summer holidays.
I don't know which to comment on first, the photos, so stunning in the way they capture the weight of everything, or the words which get to the rhythm and feel of hot days. Nice to have the walks at the end, and thumbs up to the hair, I wish mine looked as good!
World wide wanders . Remember too of fireplace blazing in July a summer with no sun. Now the heat is on, lightning strikes and fire demons ignite the fields, forests once green; now ashes are seen with smoke filled sky that provides spectacular sunsets or red hot poker faced sun rises. All a matter of perspective as time continues to pass through shivers then sweats of the dog days and wags if the tales passing us bye.