There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,
And the ricks stand grey to the sun,
Singing: ‘Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover
And your English summer’s done.’
Kipling’s lines come forcibly to mind as one looks back on our summer and of course Keats’ Ode To Autumn -“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”. [Printed in full on the next page.]
English summers are quite unique in their character. Spring recedes – loveliest of seasons. We are lucky to have our four seasons, many countries don’t. Western Europe and the States of North America of course have them especially the Fall in New England. However without our rain our country would not be so green!
When I think of our summers I go back to my childhood days spent on the beaches of North Wales, Yorkshire, Lancashire and the Isle of Man – the North West where I was brought up: golden sands, rock pools where we built dams and fished for shrimps and crabs. Later the glorious beaches and the coast of Cornwall, Devon, so well remembered in John Betjeman’s verse.
The English seaside often comes into literature and Dickens took many holidays at Broadstairs. Kenneth Graham captured it in his classic on childhood “The Golden Age”.
We are an island people [the sea is no further than 100 miles from anywhere in England].
We have ancient and traditional ties with the sea – an essentially maritime nation with great naval traditions though not so dependent as perhaps we once were with the Channel tunnel and closer ties with Europe, yet we are still fiercely independent and proud – though patriotism has not the strength it did have, as a largely urban population we still escape to the sea – it is in our national psyche.
Our Summers
David Jones