The August Bank Holiday always seems like quite a melancholic time of the year; the summer is slipping away, its potential unfulfilled, and an autumnal nip begins to appear in the air. The heatwave that we had at Easter gave way to a warm wet summer, weeds outgrew the allotment crops, and there never seemed to be a chance to take breakfast in the garden. We grew older and jowlier, our waistlines expanded, and tempus fugited too quickly. On this last long weekend of the summer nothing much happened - the city was quiet, a few people milled around without spending much money, and the Elm Hill Festival took place, only to peter out due to lack of interest. We walked into town this afternoon hoping to go to it, discovered it wasn't on, and decided to have a look around St. George's Church before taking a stroll along a part of the river which we'd never been down before, towards the New Mills.
We wandered back through the largely deserted town, past the closed shops, stopping off for a beer on the way, and contemplated just where the time had gone.
The Christmas stock is in the shops.
Advent has begun.