Winter morning

A cluster of trees, from which the leaves have started falling but which are still reasonably well covered. The grass beneath has a very thin coating of frost

My habit of observing 1 November, All Saints, as the beginning of winter often feels just as ridiculous as using the winter solstice. This year was no exception: the beginning of the month was unremittingly gloomy, but not what you’d call cold. But here we are, three weeks in and not even touching Advent yet, and it’s got properly cold (by British standards, anyway). We didn’t get the surprise snowfall that hit much of the country; instead, it’s been bright and sharp, there was a very thin layer of frost on the ground, and my ears got thoroughly chilly when I went out on the bike this morning.

The golden evening

Looking down a wet tarmac path into a bright pale yellow sunset

Sunset on All Saints’ Day, and I find myself singing The golden evening brightens in the west. Although this year We feebly struggle/ They in glory shine seems more like where I’m at, and apart from all the leaves the photo is saying sempiternal though sodden towards sundown three months early.

I’ve been feeling somewhat adrift from the seasons this year. My calendar emptied out after mid June, and you can never quite believe the weather these days. The garden is running wild with most of the fruit unpicked. Suddenly it’s November. But I got out into the golden evening on All Saints’ Day, and that’s something.