Bliss

A powerful nostalgia

When the very first act of the day is to go downstairs and open the back door. To step barefoot into the garden: into air already warmed by hours of daylight, into sounds of distant lawnmowers and blackbird song.

When you can sink into a rhythm of this routine: shuffle pots around in your pyjamas; take fresh fruit to the sun-drenched steps for breakfast; feel the morning swell into something long and lovely before the usual business of the day.

When, across a week of good weather, the inside is abandoned for the outside, and the garden becomes your favourite room. When your eyes barely bother adjusting to the gloom of the house, as you pop inside to find scissors, fill your glass, dig an ice lolly from the freezer.

*

There’s something luxurious about the certainty of a hot summers’ day. The knowledge that you won’t be cold, no matter what you wear, from the moment you wake up until you go to bed. It’s a rare simplicity that I associate with holidays abroad – those glorious weeks spent without a cardigan in your bag, without even bothering to pack socks into your suitcase – but which does, on occasion, arrive here on our rain-soaked island too. We had a sudden flush of it in May – like a long press onto a searing pan – and then, just as quickly as it came, the heat was gone again.

It’s taken me almost thirty years to conclude that, without a doubt, I am a ‘summer person’. Like cats and dogs, it seems, we are supposed to choose a side, a season, and stand by it – so as to be known and understood by others. (The jury on ‘morning’ or ‘night’ for me is still out.) Born in November and always steadfast about the cosy charm of that damp month, I had been stubborn about admitting what, in my heart, I knew to be an obvious truth. Of course summer was better. Of course it was. The abundance of light, of leaf – and of warmth.

This truth about myself has lately been reinforced by my realisation that when sizzling blue skies arrive and the news heralds a ‘heatwave’, not everyone is as jubilant as I am. Many people in the UK abhor the stickiness of a thirty-degree day, and I understand. We’re not built for it – literally. Unlike other more practiced nations, our towns and cities don’t offer much respite when the thermometer does climb. Rotating fans fly off the shelves and blinds come down. I hadn’t realised how many people dreaded such a forecast.

I am aware, of course, that soaring temperatures can bring with them all kinds of genuine challenges and dangers – particularly for the tender young and vulnerable old. I also know that the strangeness of this most recent stint is also a reminder of the record-breaking territory we so often stumble into now, as our climate shifts outside its familiar territory. That it had, undeniably, a surreal undercurrent, charged with electricity and lightning storms.

But despite sharp spikes of heat, we do still live on an incredibly temperate island – so temperate, in fact, that I have been raised into an attitude of extreme sun-gratitude. If it shines, you go outside. Because you never know when the next warm day will come along. A common phrase I find myself repeating at the end of any stretch of good weather, an echo of my parents, is: this could be it, you know. This could be the extent of our summer. I said it last week, and not without a hint of seriousness.

And so, when that long row of bright yellow orbs filled the weather apps in May, I couldn’t help but feel a bodily excitement. I swept the nagging worry about reports of a possible ‘super’ El Niño aside and, for a little while at least, embraced the joy – and the heady nostalgia – that comes with days like these.

Days spent in cotton dresses and straw hats; hours scented with Soltan suncream and warm grass.

Evenings eating under the pergola, ladybirds dropping onto plates, bread toasted on the barbecue’s remaining heat – to be slathered with an abundance of that year’s strawberry jam. Jasmine flowers filling the air with scent. Citronella candles. Warmth, gentle, comfortable warmth, even once the sun has set.

Shallow, half-sleeps on the sand, when the surrounding noise – of laughter, wave-splash, tears, and the knock of a mallet on a wind-break – retreats, slipping into a gentle soundtrack for semi-conscious thoughts.

*

This morning was soft and damp with mizzle. I woke up early to restore some order to my study – having spent much of the last few weeks of work either on the move, at the dining table, or under the sun umbrella by the kitchen door. With the weather finally broken, I settled down again, freed from that desperate itch to be outside, to make the most of it. Still, a gap in the rain: I snuck outside with my book and a slice of toast, and sat on a folded tea towel at the dripping bistro set.

May was a month of many seasons, but ended right back where you’d expect at this time of year. The weeks ahead look, according to the Met Office, entirely unremarkable. The fever-dream of thirty-three degrees among the tents at Hay Festival is shrinking in the rear-view mirror. Tender annuals – seedlings just getting started after the not-so-long-ago risk of frost – are in relief, soaking up the showers.

My May was as varied as the weather and sprinkled with numerous joys – new places, gorgeous flowers, exciting writing news (to come) and some immensely talented magazine contributors – as well as a drop of sadness. In between all this I stayed home at every opportunity, continuing my gardening affliction and getting everything as ready as I could for a June spent almost entirely away. (I’ll be in Pembrokeshire, helping on a really exciting excavation – I’ll tell you all about it when I next write.) In the meantime, I’ll trust nature to do its work while I’m gone, and let the sprint into summer growth commence.

*

As I sit here, conjuring a perfect summer from my desk, I feel impatient for the months ahead. I’ve stowed away my winter clothes and re-instated skirts and sandals in my life; re-kindled a lightness in my step, unburdened by coats or extra layers. I’ve made elderflower cordial that tastes of sun-dappled, afternoon shade: sweet and cool. Nothing seems as stressful when its warm enough to have all the windows open.

I’ve gathered up the reasons why I love this season, and I want more. I remember all these things, these gold-tinted scents and sounds, and can land upon only one simple, seldom-bestowed word: bliss.

When the last act of the day is to water the plants and I can lose myself at dusk in the wild abandon of the fruiting garden. When everyone, everything, is sun-tired and still, save the hush of the hose; its heavy rain on grateful leaves. This slow, peaceful ritual before bed.

When the nights are hot enough to pull the duvet from its envelope and sleep with empty cotton sheets – or none at all. When a tepid shower before bed helps to cool the skin. When a fan whirrs softly from the chair in the corner.

I remember, with a deep and bodily nostalgia, the savouring of those last moments of wakefulness on a summer evening – while light still glows through the bedroom curtains. While the blackbird sings, and cheerful voices still murmur on the street and over walls. While dishes clink into distant dishwashers, and Mum works her way around the garden with the hose.

All summer, I will endeavour to recreate this feeling. I will try, repeatedly, to reach my pillow before the last light has left the sky outside – to turn off my bedside lamp before its gone, so that I can lie in that safe, dim lilac of my childhood. As we draw closer and closer to the summer solstice, now is the easiest time to succeed. I try every year, and manage it only once or twice – before the darkness starts to gain its strength once more.

I’ll see you on the return journey – yes, already – in July. Though there’ll be plenty more sunlight still to enjoy, I’m sure.

KT x