The weather, these last few weeks, was not really what you would call summer.

The unusual thing, however, has been that it rained during the week and was relatively pleasant at the weekends.
Last week, on two occasions, I awoke asking myself if it were, perhaps, November. Cold, grey, dark and dismal.

Thomas Hood's poem was especially appropriate.
No sun -- no moon!
No morn -- no noon!
No dawn -- no dusk -- no proper time of day --
No sky -- no earthly view --
No distance looking blue --

Imagine our surprise, then, when the weatherman forecast a weekend of soaring temperatures.
On Friday temperatures reached 14°C. Yesterday the thermometer displayed 30°.

The local farmers obviously believed the forecast because on Friday evening they were out mowing the meadows.
Yesterday they turned the cut grass twice and because the ground is still wet and colder than usual, for this time of year, they are out turning it again today.

My nearest neighbour is always a little faster than the others and while I write, he is raking his hay into windrows awaiting collection.
He obviously hasn't learned from experience ...
... last year he stacked his hay in the hay loft and soon afterwards the fire-briagde arrived to put out the ensuing fire - Hay produces internal heat due to bacterial fermentation. If hay is baled from moist grass, the heat produced can be enough to set the hay on fire.

Today is Sunday - the tractors are driving up and down the meadows and no-one seems to care about the noise. I'm sure, that if I put on music at the same volume, there would be complaints ...