There is something in the air today. The first funghi - the heavy hooded 'cèpes' the matrons of the mushroom kingdom; the feather-lite saffron fans of the 'chanterelles'; the ominous black bugles of the 'trompettes de mort' - are sidling up out of the earth to join the late tomatoes - streaked and misshapen, red, black, green and purple like so many bruises. Similarly, their is a crisp messenger riding on the hot balloon of summer air, and skin and wool fight to be closest to the wind.
The pool has closed, my last laps swum under departing swifts, and I can almost feel my body melting into winter dough. The wood is ordered and, despite the twenty seven degrees and available peaches, the recipe books are falling open at hearty stews.