Summer arrived with a bit of a bang. It sneaked in through the back door, and caught us unawares, leaving many scrambling for sunglasses, shorts, and sandals.
The beach near our house, only a few days ago the preserve of dog walkers and kite flyers, is now packed out with sun worshippers.
Students, celebrating the end of their High School imprisonment, are driving round, horns blaring, flags waving.
The air is heavy with the unmistakeable aroma of lighter fluid, as somebody nearby cranks up a barbecue.
I sip the remainder of the last steeping at about 9:30 pm, as the sun prepares for its evening curtain call, turning the darkening sky everything from red to blue via yellow and back again.
Up here we know only too well how short summers can be. The last thing I do before going to bed is to prepare a batch of cold brewed green tea.