Fall Back...

The closing bars of the “Coronation Street” theme are ending. It’s dark. The rain is hammering against the windows.

It suddenly isn’t summer any more…

But somehow it seems that the changing seasons aren’t marked in the conventional way – or only in the conventional way – these days. The smoky bonfire air is expanded to make room for next door’s coal fire and the almost imperceptible vapour as a thousand oil heating systems are turned up. But there’s still that evocative new crispness in the air, bringing back memories of new school uniforms and lovely new books and fountain pens; as the leaves turn golden we can all think back to years ago, to the first crunch of frost on the grass, the first cloud of breath in the air, the last sight of swallows on a telephone wire.

But with global warming and climate change, does autumn – or any season – really produce all its traditional signals of arrival these days? After all… some Northern Irish trees have been fading and losing their leaves since late August, and the summer weather of 2007 must have made at least one or two swallows take an early flight. Driving rain and calendars apart: how do we actually know that Autumn has arrived?

It’s Monday morning. You’re driving to work. On both sides of the street you can see teenagers, dressed in the distinctive uniforms of the various local schools. They’ve been there a few weeks now. The blazers are starting to look less stiff – the schoolbags heavier and more battered – the eyes less bright. That first morning the eyes were wide and the laughs and chatter loud; groups of teenagers were hugging one another in delight at exams passed and holidays taken. Now, though, it’s different. It’s that first morning when you’ve had to turn your headlights on. Your sunglasses are tucked away now and you’ve had to turn the car heater on. The chill of the steering wheel radiates through your fingers. The teenagers are quieter this morning, bent slightly against the wind and beneath the burden of work. Non-regulation scarves, hats, gloves are blooming here and there with the incongruity of brightly-coloured orchids. Feet are stamped; hands thrust low in pockets; heads kept down. When the journey ends, they’re glad to get inside; in the school corridors, they perch on radiators, the chatter a crescendo until the bell rings…

Now it’s Saturday morning. You’re in town. A few errands to do, and the anticipated reward – a cup of coffee, some chocolate, maybe one of those muffins you like. You sit by the window, your hands gratefully around the mug, your purchases at your feet. And then you see it – the Autumn fashion show. It’s right there in front of you. There are the optimistic “outdoor men”, still in shorts, but accessorising now with hiking boots, thick socks and a navy fleece. And next we see the stylish twenty-something women, all skinny jeans tucked into high-heeled boots, the leather burnished to reflect the golden leaves. Waistcoats and tunics and look – over there – you spot the first polo neck of the season. And now here come the sensible, retired couples. The showerproof blousons of summer have been carefully stored away, and this season they’re favouring the lightly padded anorak, accessorised with tweed cap or artisan-knitted hat, easycare trousers or pleated skirt, and flat brown lace-ups, and perhaps a co-ordinating shopping bag. You can spot the off-duty teachers with ease. Nothing extreme, in case they are seen by horrified teenage pupils and talked about on Monday. “Did you, like – did you see what she was, like, wearing? OMG – how totally, like –tragic!” The colours of this model will be carefully co-ordinated and the shoes will be practical; the female variant will almost certainly carry a reasonably capacious handbag with pockets for almost any eventuality. The jeans may well still be boot-cut; the coat will probably be last season’s grey; and the giveaway accessory will almost certainly be the mild air of slightly bewildered disapproval as the model looks around at his or her fellow shoppers.

And then there was your shopping. The supermarket held its own hints. As fresh, local fruit fades to invisibility once more, the selection boxes emerge once again and the first reds and greens whispering of Christmas packaging inveigle their way onto the shelves. Glossy, new calendars and diaries hold a promise of an expanse of time which has yet to be accounted for. Slippers and hot-water-bottles and cosmetic gift sets and hats and scarves and gloves and mittens and fleecy dressing gowns and throws and blankets and luxurious vanilla candles… the embodiment of a picture-perfect cosiness is suddenly everywhere. The Christmas Shop is open for business again. A hassled mother comes out, dragging an outraged three-year-old, her face scarlet with indignation, tears flowing, fists waving. She cannot comprehend that there’s still three months to wait…

Saturday afternoon arrives. You decide it might be nice to go for a walk on one of the local beaches. Arriving, you’re pleasantly surprised to find a parking space so easily. It wasn’t like that during the summer – in spite of the indifferent weather, somehow the beaches contrived to be busy nonetheless. The sand, when you reach it, offers something very different to its summer persona. There must be fifty surfers – their black wetsuits silhouetted against the pristinely white surf as they ride and fall and cascade. There are people walking everywhere – on the sand, towards it, away from it – their dogs and children shrill with seaside excitement. No-one sits still any more to build a sandcastle or plant a windbreak. No-one’s paddling. Some sixth-formers from a local school are having an energetic game of volleyball in a sheltered corner – their shouts and laughter echoing and mixing with the breaking waves. An older lady in a long black skirt has found a quiet corner on the prom, away from the wind; she’s sitting there, a smile of complete contentment spreading across her face, her eyes closed, face turned into the sunlight…

In the 1970s, the students of one particular Oxford college introduced a ceremony which involved them walking solemnly backwards around a quadrangle for an hour, on the night on which the clocks were put back an hour in October. With the ceremony beginning at 2am on Sunday (BST) and ending at, well, 2am on Sunday (GMT), the students who initiated the ritual believed it to be necessary to preserve the passage of space and time, or to stop the universe from slipping into limbo. The event has, apparently, proved increasingly popular in recent years, perhaps because of the new, additional challenge of consuming port throughout the exercise. Whatever some may think, we don’t need to walk backwards to realise that the nights are getting longer, the days colder, and that the pile of pages in the tear-off desk calendar is growing thinner – quite literally – by the day. Climate change may be blurring the definition of the seasons: there was a tornado today in Birmingham, flooding in July in Gloucester, and a dusting of snow last year at Easter. But we can’t avoid the fact that Autumn still arrives, whether or not it is heralded by wisps of smoke and perfect copper leaves. Maybe we cannot help but wonder whether how, or where, we place our feet will change the direction or balance of the world. The truth is though, that we can choose to place our feet one in front of, or one behind the other. But whichever, whatever we do, and however we choose to define it, our time will still move forwards – Autumn, Winter, Christmas, January, Spring…

And how am I choosing to deal with this, on a particularly wintry Autumn evening? Simple. A hot drink, a thick jumper, a good book, and an early night.



Originally written 24-09-07