The day began with mist rolling in over the sea, but before long it turned to morn­ing driz­zle and on into a rainy after­noon; big, lazy rain­drops falling in patches from the sky. Then as evening came the mist rolled in once more, cloak­ing every­thing in damp­ness and white. Here by the shores of the Eng­lish Chan­nel, this is how autumn begins.

Though it will return in patches over the com­ing month, brief flick­ers and shad­ows of July’s heat, the sum­mer that was is now gone. It was a sum­mer of travel and of dodg­ing the rain, a sum­mer of remem­ber­ing the past and of mak­ing plans for the future. It held what might be my last RABIES, what may be my last sum­mer in Gali­cia, and what almost cer­tainly will be my last sum­mer as an unmar­ried man.

So now, as the light dims and dies for another year, bring on har­vest and Hallowe’en, bring on the howl­ing winds and dri­ving rain, bring on coats and inside-out umbrel­las and mugs of warm cider by the fire. Soon it will be sum­mer once more, and every­thing will be different.