I live in a beautiful place miles from nowhere. It is high and windswept and one of the most frequent comments I get is: ‘It must be lovely here in summer.’ Sometimes, it is. Sometimes there is sun and a light breeze and not too many midges or cleggs (blood sucking flies who leave an itchy bump that makes one realise just how benign the mosquito is.)
But to really appreciate this place, you need to be here in late autumn, or in the snows of winter, or in very early spring. Those days when you would not in fact, pack up and spend the day on a beach, or in some chosen bit of even more beautiful countryside, or having a BBQ or sandwich in the fly-free environs of suburbia. Those moments when you can enjoy twenty minutes outside, but not two hours.
Day like yesterday, when a brief spell of warm sun in the middle of the day made the place a joy just to walk through. Or moments like tonight, when the full moon rose at dusk, and cast a spell over its mud and shabbiness.