Driving to and back from Oxford this afternoon, a route I know all too well, I could not but be struck by the fields of bright Yellow spanning across the earth.  Rape Seed fields.

We long so for summer, living in England. And she plays with us, one day full on sunshine, the next a grey reminder of the cold and arctic wind.  Weather is our middle name.  Do we ever talk of anything else?

I must be full blown English then, to get excited by a bright morning, to feel the warmth in a ‘sun trap’ in a garden.  To greet with the ‘it’s a great Summer’s day’ and everyone nods in unison – a saviour has arrived.  We have a great, sunny day.

Did I ever have such an obsession about the weather in my previous home?  Not so much.  Hated the heat, and now I long for it, but we just got on with the business of weather.  Here, it is all, and the dramatic seasons make us realise how humble we are to nature.

So today, seeing these fields of yellow, as I go through the pass that always presents a view.  Sometimes of snow, of barren fields, or young lime, I was breathless at the sight of yellow.  Like a renaissance, the year begins again, and although the daffodils have faded and the signs of Spring have turned to Summer, I am so grateful for having survived the harsh winter and been given the chance to thrive again.

How to explain that the weather is our navigator of life here in England?

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