There is a smokiness in the air that is sending me the clear message that it’s time to start bringing in fire wood. A mountain of good, dry wood has been delivered and all that remains to be done is for me to cut each log to a suitable size for the wood burner. Our excuses, at the end of each day, for not lighting the fire , which act would serve as a declaration of the change of season, are becoming less and less convincing. Our current excuse of overwhelming tiredness, made early in the evening, allows us to retire to our bed and its warmth whilst retaining a certain degree of yeoman hardiness. I’ve tried to encourage yeoman hardiness, during our years of country living, but my view of hardiness and a yeoman’s would make chalk and cheese appear as a mirror image of each other.
Last evening, the camel’s back was severely strained by the weight of straw placed upon it. It was clear that the time had come for a man to go to the wood pile and do what a man has got to do. If only we had such a man. In his absence it looks like I have drawn the straw that will save the camel any further discomfort. I do not share Sydney Carton’s stoicism in the face of misfortune but, to be fair, their is little similarity in our misfortunes save for a sharpened blade which, contrary to Sidney’s lot, will hopefully be employed to my advantage.
When it comes to cutting fire wood, the first cut may not be the deepest but it is, to my mind, the least demanding. Biting wind, bitter cold and driving rain are still below the horizon of the blue sea that still manages to hold sway in my summertime mindset. I shall be cutting wood as a pleasant occupation on a warm day. A change from the norm rather than a monotonous chore. In truth, all things without change become monotonous. Figs and cream are today’s peaches and cream. I had forgotten how delicious figs are and how beautiful they look and so, like an inconstant, alimentary Lothario, my roving eye has settled on the ripening beauties of Autumn to whom I should plight some troth…..by why waste good troth when I’m sure that there’s something even better, just around the corner, to which I would like to give a good plighting. The season is dead, long live the season.