For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven.
A time to be born and a time to die.
A time to plant and a time to harvest.
Even for those who are not very religious would have to admit that The Bible says an awful lot of good stuff. That could be because those who wrote it had some sort of divine inspiration … or just that they were very astute observers of the world and its ills.
Here in this island we have just had our sunniest summer in decades but, though Winter may have officially have arrived yesterday, it has been making its presence felt these past three weeks. Temperatures remain relatively high, (we are still getting fresh raspberries every day!) have been easing but, as usual in Ireland, its the arrival of the rain that really heralds the changing of the season.
Then, last evening, much to Robin’s horror, when myself and the girls were out “riding” the little fat pony Rosie, the first Whooper swans of the season flew just feet over our heads. They come here from their Icelandic breeding grounds when winter arrives there; its not often that visitors come to Ireland for the weather! Sorry no pic, camera safe at home.
During the summer we loved the long sunny days and being outdoors well into the late evening. Now, during the shortening days and watery sunshine of the Halloween break we have been harvesting some of our bumper crops of apples; we then race indoors for some warming food and snuggle down around a nice wood fire. We are well ready for it … and love it just as much.
Look at the piles of wood! An unusual sight for Ireland, to my mind, so accustomed to only turf fires – although is a lovely sight to see the amount of forests around the country now. We change our clocks back tonight – and I shall begin counting the days until Dec 21 when each day begins to lengthen again. So far we’ve been fortunate, but wintery weather can’t be far away!
Hi Deirdre, yeah, Ireland is commonly associated with turf but actually it was never part of our lives; I suppose that’s because they’re were no bogs near us, in Riddlestown or Wilton or Elm Hill. While here in Laois there are some bogs not too far away but turf-cutting doesn’t seem to have been part of the Talbots’ heritage either!