Our English summer behaves like a reluctant party guest. It turns up late with a cheap bottle of wine and drinks the nicer wine bought by others. It leaves unexpectedly half-way through the party to catch up with uninvited friends down at the pub, staggers back in time for the lovely baked potatoes wrapped in tinfoil, then leaves earlier than expected. And yes, we will invite him again next year in the vain hope that things will be different.
This evening, driving back to Kettering from Fotheringhay, I noticed that the sky taunted me with early autumn colours – pastel, subtle, but with a distinct sense of an underlying chilliness.