When weather evokes memories …

"... who isn’t charmed 
by a wild flower meadow 
oxeye daisies stand tall 
battered poppies 
brave the wind
crane’s-bill and bindweed
line the lanes ..."

Well, what a summer it has been!   The fields are parched, the hay is gathered early, and much of the country is in drought.  But not yet in Yorkshire, although perhaps it’s just a matter of time. 

We all have an opinion on the weather don’t we?  But even the sun worshippers have to acknowledge, I think, that we need rain. I’m not about to get into a climate change debate, but I think it’s safe to say that the climate is changing.  It makes me wonder where it will all end.  The world continues to evolve and so, of course, do we.  

I’ve been reflecting on how I’ve changed over the last few years, having reached some milestones in life.  A year into retirement from my full time job, I’ve had the opportunity to do more of what I love and to spend more time with family and friends.  I’ve found space to focus on creativity, to exercise and travel.  I’ve thought a lot about how I am ageing.  I can’t avoid it: I look in the mirror every day and see it looking back at me.  And I welcome this older face, the grey curls, and the still bright eyes.  If my social media algorithms are anything to go by, we are obsessed with ageing.  So many of the podcasts I listen to tackle the subject of ageing, seeking to tell positive stories about how age can bring wisdom, freedom and fresh opportunities.  So far, that’s been my experience.  

It’s humbling to realise, as you age, that you are becoming the older generation.  As what was the older generation die, you find you are filling the space they once filled.  It’s a cycle as old as time. I have to pinch myself when I watch my nephew with his children, remembering the boy he was at their age.  I watch my mother entering a decade that was once defined by my grandmother.  I watch myself growing old, knowing it’s a privilege not everyone enjoys.   

The summer of ’26 has taken me back to ’76, which was one of those defining summers in the UK.  If you lived through it, you’ll remember it and can still talk about it.  My friends and I had a habit of sitting on the pavement outside our houses to play.  But we couldn’t that year because the tarmac was melting.  I would’ve been in shorts and a t-shirt.  There would, invariably, have been a plaster on my knee from some recent scrape.  I was your typical tomboy; wouldn’t have been seen dead in a dress if I could help it.  But I didn’t always get to choose.  I occasionally wore a dress under duress and somehow lived to tell the tale.  There was my First Holy Communion dress: white like a bride, complete with a ridiculous veil.  All Catholic girls had to endure this torture and we bore it collectively, which took the edge off the humiliation.  Then there was the bridesmaid dress, for a cousin’s wedding.  My siblings both had new outfits, which they could and did wear afterwards.  I had a pale green full length broderie anglaise affair that never again saw the light of day.  Of course, the cousin later divorced, so it had all been for nothing. 

My ten year old self would not recognise the woman I’ve become.  I’ve evolved into a dress wearer. My collection is eclectic and plentiful: shirt dresses, maxi, floaty and fitted.  This summer, dresses have been a life saver.  You can’t beat a floaty number to keep you cool and feeling light.  I will think of them fondly when, in winter, I am wrapped up against the cold and wet.  The changing seasons will invite fresh insights and, of course, we’ll all have an opinion on the weather, whatever it brings. I hope that this very hot summer will have left you with memories to last a lifetime; that’s the best kind of summer in my book.