Years ago, before the kids, B and I drove from round here to the South for a week or so, sleeping on the sofa bed in one of her great aunts’ houses. Conventional wisdom had it that you drove overnight, so we set off at 10 pm and, to begin with, stayed on the Route Nationale. After a couple of hours, we stopped for a rest and, standing at the side of the road somewhere around Lons-le-Saunier, were treated to the most spectacular meteor shower I’ve ever seen.

Yes, it was the Perseids, so it must have been this time of year. A clear, warm, August night. Last night, when I stepped out of the house around midnight to see if there were any meteors, I was wearing a jumper and all I could see were grey clouds.

Yesterday was cold. So much so, that B decided to light a fire. I objected, not because I too wasn’t cold, but because it seemed too much a reminder that September, and work, is looming.

Spending the six weeks* of summer here over the past 10 years means that this place feels like home, and I don’t hanker for England at all. The fact that the job has become horrible and the country not much better means that I’m ever more reluctant to set out for the channel tunnel and its irritations (security theatre). Melancholy descends, and it’s hard to enjoy these August days.

There’s something in the quality of August light. The sun is just that little bit lower in the sky than it is in July, and the shadows stretch slightly further, and the leaves catch the light at an angle that is both beautiful and a reminder that Autumn is getting close. And then I think to myself, I’ve never seen this place in September, and the reality of being a wage slave comes crashing down. Just the idea that one day I might see these trees start to turn and the September shadows in the garden keeps me going, I suppose.

*This summer holiday (for teachers) is a total swizz: barely six weeks. We’re back on Sept 1, which is just fucking malicious. At least the kids get an extra weekend.