Goodbye summer

 Goodbye summer.

So it is that summer bids a gradual farewell and autumn can be heard giggling, chortling, chuckling and laughing in the distance. You can hear the kids on their school summer holiday, shrieking and screaming loudly and thrillingly. It feels as if the final anthems and traditional soundtracks of summer are spreading across our neighbourhoods. Slowly but surely the sun may well be setting over the empire but that could be some historic anomaly. It was good to be in your company and quite a privilege because we do, probably, take you for granted. 

Every day, during this particular summer, sweltering heat and delicious sunshine has soaked our souls, seeping through our senses, charming and caressing our faces, tanning our arms and shoulders in a way that Britain may have grown unaccustomed to. Besides, this year has been another scorcher. There can be no doubt about that. There were one or two windswept, dull, overcast periods and sprinklings of rain way back in late May and early June from what you can remember but that seems an age ago.

But high above the cathedrals and church spires, across the recreation grounds and prettiest of parks of both London and Middle England, the North and South, this has been a rewarding, spiritually uplifting summer because warm weather during the summer might have forgotten to turn up roughly 20 years ago. But hold on who cares? Surely the farmers of England have always been in desperate need of rain for their crops, the acres of dry farmland now nothing but bleached straw and non existent crops. The grass has completely lost its impetus and all is gloom and doom.  It's just a pale shade of brown and white, lifeless and sorrowful. But autumn must spring eternal. 

Comparisons with the breath taking heatwave of 50 years ago when the heat seemed to last indefinitely from early May right up until the August Bank Holiday, are now totally inappropriate. Back in 1976, we awoke to blue skies every day and took up regular residence at Valentines Park Lido, Ilford, East London. We had no idea what to expect within the next six or seven weeks because we just assumed that the good weather would only last for a couple of days or so.

But once the sun came out it beamed down on us relentlessly every day from morning to night. Britain had boldly adopted some of the Mediterranean summer heat for the entire season. There was no need what so ever to worry about booking a touristy packaged holiday to the Spanish Costa Del Sol or the Blanca and Brava option. Majorca and Benfica had arrived on our doorstep and all that was missing was the obligatory sombrero, a flamenco dancer in a Brighton or Blackpool nightclub nor indeed a paella on the family menu every night. 

Roll forward to 2026 and the birch, fur, larch and beechwood trees are thriving as they always have while the rose beds, geraniums, begonias, crysanthemums  and gardenias are just flourishing. In the vast and beautiful parks and gardens, parents are taking their young children for lengthy walks in their pushchairs and prams and everything looks right and proper. Summertime is humming its familiar sea shanties and folk songs from yesteryear and Mother Nature has discovered its most melodious voice.

This is the season for the summertime carnivals, those music festivals that can be heard in every town, city, hamlet and village across the land. The kids play their improvised games of cricket with their school mates until the fading light of an August evening. They are the future of today's society, tirelessly energetic, chasing after each other, bawling and shouting good naturedly, pretending to be adults and then settling for teenage adolescence. 

Meanwhile, here in Leeds, the good folk of Yorkshire are celebrating their 400th anniversary and the rest of the county is simply beside itself with happy vibes, music, dance, art, theatre, fancy dress no doubt, face paintings for the kids, sweets and chocolates by the factory load, biscuits and cakes in huge abundance and the familiar sight of sponge throwing at summer fetes.

And then summer greets the seaside resorts of Britain and the rest of the world, with an air of cheerful conviviality. Suddenly, Brighton, Clacton, Bournemouth, Southend, Westcliff, Margate, Bournemouth, Scarborough, Great Yarmouth, Blackpool, Skegness become full time amusement arcades, pleasure gardens and fun filled fairground leisure parks. Once again the whole of Britain abandons itself to stomach churning but joyous roller coasters and permanent music from yesteryear's pop music charts.

Whatever your choice of British seaside resorts, a fish and chip lunch becomes compulsory and the ice cream parlour is heavily populated with young children demanding a 99 or some exotic flavour. This summer, bare chested men with tattoos printed garishly across their stomachs think nothing of flaunting their tribal designs. The women will be wearing the skimpiest of swimwear, bathing costumes that are both fashionable and feminine. And then if you're lucky, you might bump into a motorbike convention. 

The age of the Mods and Rockers now belongs very firmly at the height of the heady 1960s when both sets of bikers roared into Margate and Brighton and let off metaphorical steam. But summer is now rapidly approaching its end and even the happiest seaside resorts will shortly be closing its hotels and Bed and Breakfast accommodation just for the winter and we'll all let out a sigh of natural disappointment. 

Still never mind all of that candy floss and toffee apple frivolity will make its inevitable comeback at the beginning of next June. The gently foaming seas by the beach will be alive with kids building their timeless sandcastles while mum and dad will be setting up camp next to the esplanade front preferably next to the sweet shop. Summer will of course be wearing its simple but flamboyant clothes, Union Jack hats on their head, purple or green hair if the mood takes them and the Pearly Kings and Queens to make the day complete.

Summer is sinking into the horizon rather like a sweet bowl of red cherries. Then all eyes turn to the promenade or prom. Here, the celebrity TV acts normally hold court with their perennial end of pier entertainment while a machine tells you to hit a punch ball firmly with a plastic hammer. This in turn tests your strength and you walk away with no prizes but your vanity well and truly boosted. There's the claw machine which rewards you with a cuddly teddy bear should you be so fortunate to grab hold of the main prize.

And while you happen to be in the amusement arcade, there's the unmistakable two or penny machines where hundreds of small coins inch their way slowly forward, teasing you into the bargain. Patience may be a virtue here because it's hard to tell how many you're likely to get. The kids are playing on their electronic games of rifle gun fire, flickering, flashing screens with car steering wheels and hundreds of tickets flooding out of the two pence machines.

For this is England and summer has thoroughly enjoyed your company. Once again the hotels are slowly emptying and at the end of this month it'll be the August Bank Holiday. The Notting Hill Carnival is normally the last big summer event. And then all is quietness, peace and contentment, tranquillity, somnolent sunsets, dreamy looking fishing harbours with silhouettes of fishermen and women dangling their rods before depositing their cod, hammock and trout dinners onto stunning floral plates for the evening meal. Goodbye Summer. You can come back next year. We'll be delighted to see you again.