The Evenings Are Changing

It's only July. The children have only just broken up for the summer holidays, the borders are still full of colour, and the sun has become an almost constant companion. Day after day, the warmth continues, with temperatures climbing well into the twenties and gardens adapting as best they can to another dry spell. On the surface, it still feels like the height of summer.

Yet standing in the garden this evening, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had quietly begun to change.

It's difficult to explain because nothing dramatic has happened. There isn't a sudden burst of autumn colour or leaves carpeting the lawn. The garden is still full of life. The roses are still producing remarkable displays, almost revelling in the long, sunny days. The hydrangeas are putting on a wonderful show too, although in some gardens you can already see them beginning to droop during the hottest afternoons, only to recover again as the evening cools. Bees continue their work regardless, moving steadily from flower to flower as though the heat barely concerns them at all.

On the surface, it still feels very much like summer.

But summer has started to shift.

The first thing I notice each year isn't something I see. It's something I feel. The days may still be hot, but the warmth no longer lingers in quite the same way. As the sun drops lower, the freshness begins to return a little sooner than it did a few weeks ago. It's a subtle change, one that's easy to miss if you're hurrying indoors, but after spending day after day working outside, you begin to recognise it.

Then there are the bats.

For much of the summer they're simply part of the evening, appearing almost unnoticed as daylight fades. Yet around this time of year I seem to become more aware of them. Perhaps it's because dusk arrives just that little bit earlier, making it easier to watch them weaving effortlessly across the sky. They remind me that another day is drawing to a close, and that the rhythm of the season is quietly changing.

I always find this point in the year fascinating because it asks us to hold two thoughts at once.

Summer is still here. In many ways it's at its richest. Borders are overflowing, vegetables are being harvested, butterflies still drift through the garden, and there's every reason to spend as much time outside as possible.

Yet, at exactly the same time, the garden has already begun looking ahead.

Some plants are setting seed. Others have finished flowering altogether. Birds that seemed constantly busy feeding hungry chicks only a few weeks ago are now moving through the garden in family groups. The pace hasn't stopped, but it has changed. The frantic energy of early summer has given way to something gentler, more measured.

I wonder if that's why July has always felt like such an interesting month to me.

It's easy to think of the gardening year as four neat seasons, each beginning and ending on a particular date. Gardens don't work like that. They move gradually, almost imperceptibly, from one chapter to the next. One evening you suddenly notice the light feels softer. A week later the shadows seem longer. Before long, you're wondering where the swallows have gone and finding the first fallen leaf beneath a tree.

Not because autumn arrived overnight.

But because the garden had been making its way there all along.

Perhaps that's one of the quiet pleasures of spending so much time outdoors.

You begin to notice these gentle transitions. They don't make headlines, and they don't announce themselves with fanfare. They simply happen, one evening at a time, until you realise you're standing in a different part of the gardening year.

So tonight, before the light faded completely, I stood for a few moments and simply watched.

The bats appeared.

The air felt fresher.

The colours softened.

And although summer is far from over, the garden gently reminded me that every season is already preparing the way for the next.

That's one of the reasons I never tire of watching it.

Marcus

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Marcus Bergin

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