Before I started writing this post I had a precise idea of what I wanted to say — an assembly of images, sights and natural textures to pick and choose from, and navigate around. And now I sound like Dawson, from hit emotional overload Dawson’s Creek; what can I say, that’s just the way it was. It was, now I think about it, that kind of burning-with-desire intensity of thoughts that makes you arrogantly and honestly believe that you can capture any thought, feeling or emotion and put it neatly into words so that the whole entire world can visualise it as perfectly as if they were right there, as if they had lived it many times and were as familiar with it as anything else in their life. I’d dribbled my brand-spanking-new Adidas football all the way to the shop in the next village — by no means an impressive feat by the average rambler’s standards, or a fit-old-lady’s either, but not bad for me — for my new project over at Learning To Love The Beautiful Game and then I’d come home, turned my computer on and thought Right, where was I?
This was when the floundering around started. Now, in a magic twist of annoyance, all I had were a slew of epic, indecisive, jumbled up perceptions — each of which seemed to skirt around the real meaning of what this beautiful time of the year really means.
To begin with I had wanted to write about the way that many people think the Summer is the best time of year. I wanted to say how Summer may be hot and exotic and novel — sometimes, although I’m not sure we quite reached the throws of exotic this year — but it lacks depth somehow…or maybe character. Then I wanted to write about that bit before Autumn really begins. The bit you can easily miss if you don’t sleep with your windows open. The turning of the seasons which happens literally over-night and marks the atmosphere with an almost sacred touch. Then — told you I kept changing my mind — I wanted to write about the smells of Autumn in all their unique indecipherable measures. The ones which make Summer look quite dull and lifeless. You know the ones. Those which smell of the Earth and the sky and the rain — all the elements combined, almost like a time-travelling experience from the ground to the clouds and then back again like the cycle of precipitation which happens minutely in every second. Especially if you live in Scotland.
In the end I just decided to reminisce. But I think you probably guessed that by now.
If you liked this, you may like my debut adventure/comedy novel, The Number 3 Mystery Book, available on Amazon (for Kindle and ipad etc) now, and paperback very soon…