The days of late have been English-hot. We sit outside in the daytime and my dreams at night are infused with the images from other people’s stories. Climbers on snowy Oxford rooftops. A weather balloon in Padua. African pelicans. I wear my panama hat even indoors because it reaffirms the season. This is the hat I bought to go to Morocco, I say, because once it was just a ladies’ hat in Marks and Spencer but the second I laid eyes upon it, two years ago almost, it became part of the journey. A traveller’s portable shade.
Yesterday we fixed my bicycle, swept the entrance to the house, pulled weeds up, had an impromptu barbecue. In the jungle of knee-high, hip-high grass that’s blossomed in our garden, frogs leaped from blade to blade and the smoke dissapeared into the dusky blue. From the garden pathway, looking away from the house, towards the sun dipping, the trees heavy with their summer leaves, this might be anywhere. This might be miles away, no, worlds away from anywhere else. An island of green and smoke; a paradise for the dispossessed. Very Heart of Darkness, I say, only cheerier.
We still haven’t unpacked from Wales, though we’ve been back a week. As if it’s summer now, so that’s okay. Seasonal lethargy, the usual wanderlust of these months.