Steamy warm days alternate with furious bursts of rain. Good thing too, because the trees by the river looked decidedly bedraggled the other day.
On sunny evenings at the harbour, even the ripples move slower than usual, and the golden light hazes up towards the outdoor tables of shrimp sandwiches and overpriced beer.
The locals are back from holiday, sporting unreal tans. In the mornings they eat breakfast on their boats. The children wear life-vests, and so do the dogs.
The path to the fortress is overgrown with weeds taller than I am.
The river-folk sit by the river all day – drinking and talking. I feel awkward walking past them. M says I can join them next year when I’m unemployed. Might not be so much fun in winter.
I wish I could understand the fragments of conversations. When anyone speaks to me, I nod and smile. We cycle, and program, and write.