The British Summertime cometh
The clocks slip forward. Evenings stretch open. A meditation on the arrival of British summer and the light that makes it truly begin.
Britain's seasons are not subtle. They're not the clean, calendar-appointed transitions you might get elsewhere — they're slow and negotiated and frequently contrary. Spring arrives several times, is repelled, tries again. Summer appears, lasts a week, reconsiders. And yet each shift in the light brings something that wasn't there before, and then takes it away again before you've quite finished looking at it.
This section is for writing that's as much about time as it is about any particular subject — the feeling of a season changing, the specific quality of light in a given week of a given month, the things you notice when you're paying attention to what Britain is doing right now rather than what it did last year.
The clocks go forward. The evenings stretch. The hedgerows start to move. You stop the car. That's the whole of it, really.
More seasonal writing is coming as the year moves through its turns. Britain is never short of something worth saying.