I know this not thanks to any astronomical milestone, or due to a specific calendar date, but because last night was the the last night of the Proms. And just as the Chelsea Flower Show marks the start of summer, so this particularly manic concert ends it.
The last night of the Proms (a concert series at the Royal Albert Hall stretching through the late summer) is formulaic, predictable ... and an utter joy. The beginning of the concert may vary, but the end is always the same: Pomp and Circumstance, Fantasia on British Sea Songs, Rule Britannia and Jerusalem. The Brits, who cynically look down upon patriotism and flag waving for the rest of the year, are transformed into jolly, union jack draped revellers belting out this national canon at the top of their lungs. I love it. And so, to, does the rest of the country, since it's televised for all of us to enjoy from the comfort of our sitting rooms.
But I loved September long before moving to England and embracing its rituals. It's the month of returning to school. I still have a pavlovian response at this time of year, buying myself some fresh notebooks and new pens. There are few things quite so emotionally and intellectually stimulating as a new, empty notebook. September, far more than January, has always seemed the right time to me for new starts and the excitement of fresh hopes. Of course, it's also the month of my birthday, the month when the terrible heat of my home town finally broke, and the month in which the baseball pennant races got really interesting.
In England, Autumn is quite literally in the air by September. I am reminded of just how much further north than the land of my birth we are. The length of days is plummeting dramatically. Two weeks ago, twilight enveloped the garden at 8. Now, it's already pushing towards 7. Though we see some fine, clear days, there's a chill in the air. Unlike the damp chill of the summer rains, this promises proper cold. Rather than feeling glum, I'm looking forward to pulling out the sweaters and kicking through the fallen leaves.
The countryside is putting on a magnificent display. Every hanging basket and flower box in my village is tumbling over with the final, riotous blooms of September. The brambles along many of the paths on which I walk the dog now reveal themselves to be blackberries, groaning with a load of fruit available to anyone who's thought to bring something in which to collect it. The leaves haven't started changing yet, but the birds are on the move. The honking of Canada Geese regularly fills the air, and I see scores of them gleaning the new-mown, golden hay fields beneath the castle every morning. If spring is a pregnant girl, giddy with potential, September is a woman in the full, final flush of maturity, wrapped in the breathtaking beauty of her experience.
The brambles are groaning with blackberries while the Canada Geese glean the Queen's new-mown hay fields.
Sadly, these days September brings us some darker milestones. It's time once again for the round of 9/11 memorials, the release of the latest Osama Bin Laden video and countless newscasts debating just how much worse off we are now than were were before that day of "lost innocence".
While I'll never forget those sad events, I can't let them take over the magic of my favourite month. So bring on the fresh notebooks, the cool evenings and the uplifting sense of the potential that always came with going back to school. The rest of you can celebrate on 1 January. I'll celebrate my New Year now.
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