Hot weather

Slow week in hot weather. When Ghyll and I go out the sun is stifling. Something blunt and bludgeoning about the sun on a hot day in northern climes: in Florida the sun has sharp canines and so nearly everywhere is airconditioned to the hilt to prevent you coming apart; but in Britain the sun grinds you between its molars whether you’re indoors or outdoors, only letting up around 9pm when it finally sets.

The upper canopy of a leafy tree silhouetted against a grey-blue sky with scattered white clouds.

There’s a dry, earthy, summery smell in the field. Clover mixed with dust stirred up on the hot breeze. Sun shining on clouds in the far distance, colossal in the haze. The grass on the side of the path looks a little languid.

Tall wild grasses growing against the base of a rendered concrete wall, with a strip of blue sky visible above.
A mowed grass pitch with a goalpost visible on the left, backed by a chain-link fence, outbuildings, and a row of trees under a blue sky with light cloud.

On the way back I pause in the shade of an ash tree. A newish fence leads off on one side, and a series of weatherworn posts tied by barbed wire on the other. I can hear the A19 but I can’t see it. From where I’m standing it could be hundreds of years ago. Except that I’m picking up Ghyll’s poo using a biodegradable baggie, and sidestepping a corroded can of John Smith’s.

Close-up of bramble blossoms — clusters of white five-petalled flowers with dark stamens — against an out-of-focus green hedge background.
Looking down into a half-eaten cup of mango sorbet on a yellow placemat.
Mango sorbet is a sufficient palliative for pretty much everything @ this point

Last time.

Walking Ghyll Summer

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