I hate the British weather. The skies are more often grey than blue, the sun lacks warmth and charity and the wind is searching and bitter.
I often used to reflect upon the fact that the first day of summer was said to be 21 June and Midsummer’s Day 23 June. This 6 day summer seemed often be a rather realistic portrayal of our most longed for and most disappointing season.
Now, however, the seasons are mad. We were in the South of France in late September, basking in lovely weather which was, astonishingly, cooler than back home in England. Now I have just been sitting sitting a cup of hot chocolate in a cafe by the river with the sun bathing me in real heat. I was also sitting at a table outside, something which is a comparatively recent innovation in these isles and which, in itself, says something about the change in weather, either really or at least in the mind of the consumer.
I’m not complaining, however. Nor am I going to let this deflect me one jot from our plan to move to the South of France, the Riviera, the land of sun, painters and authors.
More of this in later posts.