I am not a summer person. Not at all. Years ago, I think I was still a student, I recall sitting in a white garden chair―in the sun, eating an orange. My mother was playing the piano and fragments of her favourite Chopin nocturne drifted out through the open door and into the garden. This is summer. Not hot, sticky beaches that smell of old seaweed and coconut sunscreen lotion.
Of course, my ‘summer’ is more like autumn. And it has arrived with clear skies during the day and dew in the morning.