We’ve now totally moved on from green summer to yellow summer. Maybe, with the flowering and fluffering of the thistles, with an intermediate stop at purple summer.

Rain has forborne pretty much all summer, so the fields are dry and golden. The barley and the wheat look ready to go, but I am not a farmer so who am I to say? All that’s left of the hogweed on the side of the road are dark brown husks, and little plants that I thought were pineappleweed have grown waisthigh and burst into little golden flowers all across the meadow. (It’s actually ragwort.) I’ve stopped calling it a field and started calling it a meadow, the little unenclosed wildland at the end of Moor Lane with the ploughed-up mounds of dirt adjoining the new estate.

They’ve (who?) spread what looks like sharp sand on the playing field where Sam and I throw a ball around with Ghyll; I wear my sandals and get little gritty bitlets stuck between my toes.

The heat has broken, at least temporarily: I slept with the covers on last night, and wore a jumper with the sleeves rolled up at my desk today (plus shorts).