Up here, on what we affectionately call the Ashfield Tundra, we had a cold, grey summer, which is now being followed by a similarly miserable autumn. There have been few days when it's stayed dry. Even fewer when a malicious wind hasn't strafed across the fields from the south west, keeping the trees around the village in constant, swaying motion, like bewitched dancers. And of course, no sun. Days of lowering clouds like army issue blankets draped across the sky. The dullest summer since 1922 - I can't believe autumn will be score any better.
I wonder how the sun-loving, warmth-seeking butterflies and moths have fared. I've seen very few on the wing this year - where do they go? How do they feed when the rain and wind make flight impossible for these tiny aeronauts? Do they huddle under the dripping leaves, grumbling about the weather like I do? I remember a line from D H Lawrence:
'I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.'
Perhaps I should take a leaf from their book.
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