Sunday morning was bright and clear. We put on our boots and headed up into the hills behind our house. In a meadow high above the city we sipped scalding hot chocolate out of flasks and munched on satsumas. Below us the river picked its way between the streets in a thin thread of shining silver. In the near distance we could see where it opened up into the estuary, a big pool mirroring the sky before emptying into the vast mellow haziness of the sea beyond.
While we took in the view and gave Wren her bottle, Finch took himself off into a corner of the meadow and lay down. All we could see were his blond curls between the yellowing grasses and hear his vibrant little voice singing to the sky. I felt chastened. It has been a wonderful September, full of warm, ripening days. I have not been at all in tune with it, instead rushing around trying to do too much and not, in the end, getting very much done. Iโve missed out on a wonderful month. โGetting things doneโ is for the dark wet days of November when thereโs nothing else to do!
