Chilling

As I wrote that ambiguous heading for this blip, I was reminded by the autofill of a previous post "Chilling with the chaps". I suspect it should have been "chillin' " because that''s how cool style would dictate, but it made me think of how unlikely it is that I'll be doing any such thing for a while - be the "chaps" my sons or my grandsons - or my granddaughters, come to that, for I often used to address whole classes, mixed gender, as "chaps". They seemed quite cheerful about it too. 

And pushing that ambiguity further, I could consider the strange moment this morning when I found myself for the first time in many months arriving in the pulpit in church to preach and looking at a small sea of masked faces. That was quiet a chilling moment, actually, because I realised how hard it is to read people when all you can see is their eyes - and how much we have to work at expressing ourselves with our eyes when we're all dressed like bank robbers. (For the avoidance of doubt: I removed my own mask to preach and put it back on again when I sat down. New liturgical rituals are being born ...)

But in fact my heading isn't sinister at all; it is merely descriptive of my beach scene. Having once again found our garden warm enough to eat our lunch outside and then to fall asleep in the sun again, we decided a modest walk would waken us up a bit, and headed down the coast to Toward. This view shows the patch of shore where I had my first sea bathe this summer, on a wonderfully hot day when the sea felt like silk (honest!). All I can say is that I never felt less like going into the sea than today, with a wind in the south (ie into the camera) chilling us and demanding we force our still-traumatised knees into a brisk march along the road and back.

Tonight, we are told, the temperature in central Scotland (that's us, give or take) is set to drop to 1ºC (it was 12º when I took the photo). Then, we're told, it'll be a tad warmer because it's going to rain. There may be gales, but it'll not be quite as cold. We used to sing of "equinoctial gales", so they're slightly late, but I have a horrid feeling autumn is well and truly going beyond the mists and mellow fruitfulness stage. And then winter ... without Christmas? 

As I said. Chilling.