The light and breeze brush over the fields of gold like ripples over a lake. The air is alive with freshness, the sun fills the landscape with magical light.
There is no better way to spend a summer afternoon than to walk in the English countryside.
“The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone.”