40 Our northern summer’s a perversion of winters further south of here; it flickers briefly, a diversion which fades as soon as it appears. The sky was redolent of autumn, the sun came into view but seldom, the days had shortened steadily, the woods’ mysterious canopy, despondent, murmured as it opened, mist slowly settled on the leas, a caravan of honking geese was heading southwards like an omen; a pallid season stood before – November waited at the door.
