For many years I believed the term Indian Summer was derived from the sub-continent. Where light and dark take an equal share of the day and leave little time for grey. Dusk is so brief that bad light could end a day’s cricket before the sun had even set.
I felt slightly disappointed to learn that the phrase in fact had Native American origins, though during this past week the woods have felt neither Indian or American – instead, there is a distinctly Mediterranean feel among the trees.
The mornings are still and thick with dew and it is not until mid-morning that the sun becomes more than hazy. By teatime the temperature is well into the twenties and the sun low enough to creep under the canopy and turn the forest floor ever dustier.
With twelve hours of darkness the mycelium is desperately trying to push it’s fruit through the tinder and cracks but only the big, robust mushrooms are making it skyward. Boletes sit firm among the brush and bramble and in short sleeves and trousers I truly do wonder where my afternoon forays have taken me….