One morning, you step out of the door and just stop.
Sniff the air, look around and feel the hairs on your arms lift with a ripple of goosebumps.
Such a slight chill to the air, to be almost insignificant, but you know... you know.
The seasons are turning.
I love this time. I know there will be folk, beating their brows and wailing "but its still August!" and of course it is.
But its turning. The year is slowing. And I am happy with that.
I can hear wood pigeons, softly cooing in the trees and although I have no idea why this should be, it always makes me think of September, morning mists and new duffel coats.
We had a jug of Pimms between ourselves, yesterday evening, perhaps our last to the summer...a recipe swan song?
The Discovery is in season. One of the earliest British eating apples, available from early August.
"Bite" I tell him. "Look it's pink inside..." Eagerly I point. I was five and it my first term at school, perhaps it was my first walk to school. Stiff black shoes, grey pinafore and navy blue cardi. A bite out of a little pink apple, twenty odd years ago. It's pink inside. History repeating.
Cycles and circles.
Reassuring and calmly certain, the months slip by...glass beads on a string. The ebb and flow makes me happy to be living, in a temperate country. Temperate....a lovely word and quality. Fickle me, I relish each seasonal window of opportunity, to try out a slightly different 'me'.
Spring me in yellow wellies and green macintosh; asparagus and daffodils; brisk walks, planting and clear outs.
Summer me in vintage dresses and sandals; seafood linguine and homemade elderflower fizz; swimming and lazy wandering.
Autumn me in tartan and tweed; bramble jam and goulash; knitting and long long runs.
Winter me in red beret, bright woollie tights, a duffel coat; roasted squash and mulled wine; snoozing under warm sofa blankets and hushed candle light evenings.
Fun, frivolous but truly, this is nature's way.
A step and a stop every morning to see what the world has to say. And what we have to say in answer. It's a balm to rattled nerves, a tonic for weary souls. The world is as it should be and perhaps, if we let it, so are we.