The end of summer
Learning to lean into the glories of autumn
Way back in primary school, in Infant Two, there was a frieze on the walls of Mrs Murray’s classroom showing the months of the year. August showed a beach scene with a little boy kneeling in front of a wooden boat, warm sunshine abounding, flesh peachy in the open air. That’s weird, I vividly remember thinking as a six-year-old. August is practically autumn. Is it not a bit cold for the beach?
Recently, I learned that in the Celtic calendar, July is the end of the summer and August marks the start of the incoming winter. Somewhere in my bones I knew this, and perhaps that’s why as a child it felt strange to think about holidaying in August. Cold weather was dangerous for the Celts. They prayed pre-Christian prayers for the snow to spare them, for their food to last, for their children and animals to live until the earth warmed up and the days lengthened.
I work in book publishing, where traditionally August was a quiet time. That continues on some level, as many agents and editors are away, although work never stops nowadays, if it ever really did. There are autumn campaigns to prepare, books to plan, and for publicists and marketers like me, the chance to reserve and organise and run through activities that, once the autumn is in play, will be stressful and impossible to repeat. Like gymnasts, landing the finish is all-important and there are no opportunities for re-runs.
Even now, August retains a slight lull, then a gear shift, before the frantic frazzle of the autumn reveals itself. That back-to-school feeling begins to creep through, the need to prepare and sharpen pencils and polish shoes.
For the last two summers, we have had a narrowboat holiday during August. Being on a narrowboat slightly reminds me of being on maternity leave - the sense that life’s hustle and bustle is happening in a sphere nearby but rarely overlapping. The same world but from a different angle. On a boat, even in very ordinary towns, we might see kingfishers, hear owls, see dozens of dragonflies, or muntjac deer dipping their necks to drink from the cut. In the dead of night, if you step outside the cosy inside of the boat and onto the towpath you sometimes hear a snapping of twigs and monstrous sounding feet galloping through the night.
In the mornings we might awake in a wide field and open the curtains to find eight fat rust-coloured bullocks drinking at the water’s edge, curiously watching us as we in turn watch them. Six enormous grey cygnets, the same size as their parents, might float over to the boat to see if we’ll ignore the new rules about lettuce and peas and indulge them with our crusts.
And when we arrive back home, we’ll have renewed gratitude for an electric kettle and room to swing a cat. We’ll promise one another that like when we’re on the boat, we’ll play cards together and spend our evenings reading companionably, appreciating the little things and revelling in nature. Somehow, despite our best intentions, we won’t be anything like as outdoorsy as we’d like to be once we’re off the boat. The autumn will close in and we’ll think back to the many peaceful moments and glorious evenings, just the three of us.
Autumn can be a busy time in publishing, and at home, it’s been uniform shopping, new after-school clubs, teaching our daughter to ride a bike, and some family caring responsibilities for an ill relative that all take patience, brainpower and what sometimes feel like scarce resources to balance.
I find that carving out time - even just half an hour, even ten minutes - every day makes it easier to keep going. Then I don’t go from week to week having felt that all my energy and time has evaporated without me doing anything to mark the week. It’s hard to put myself first, but the value in having done something just for me is immeasurable.
Finally, while I was writing this, my Mum coincidentally messaged me to say: ‘Celtic thinking emphasises that the sun has done its work and it’s time to be thankful for the fruits of autumn.’
So it’s time for me to go forth and be thankful. How are you planning to make autumn memorable? I’d love you to share in the comments.