Days in June have a certain smell to them that brings to my mind many memories.
It is a warm, fragrant odour emanating from the soils. A slight rise in temperature is the catalyst to start to spur on the growth of the natural flora after a long hibernation through the cold winter months and indecisive spring.
I remember the excitement as a child of waking up early on a June morning.
The air would already be warm and kicking away the bed covers gave some relief to hot feet and legs. The sun streamed through the cotton curtains and the dark, foreboding images amongst the pattern made up of railway engines and depicted memorabilia of timetables and posters were no longer to be seen, well at least until night time came around again.
Peeking through the chink from which the floodlight of the sun lit up my bedroom I could see movement in the street. There was a heat haze from the surface of the road which gave the pedestrians and vehicles a surreal appearance as though their lower parts had evaporated.
An early bird next door neighbour had got through mowing half the front lawn and was preparing the sprinkler to try to restore some natural colour to the brown parched blades of grass. After a very wet few weeks in May when all outdoor activity, either play or gardening had been suspended there was already a rumour in the street that the Water Board were considering a hosepipe ban.
Those with absolute pride in their three metre square of turf were determined to beat the prohibition order and give everything a thorough soaking.
Soon our back door would be open to let in some cooler air into the kitchen as we had our breakfast. Facing north there could a tangible variation in temperature to the rest of the elevations.
If a weekday in term time I would start to get hot and bothered in my uniform even before the route march with Father who would escort us to within sight of the school on his own way to work. I would feel justified in lagging behind a bit trying to keep in the shade cast by garden trees and buildings rather than getting even more frazzled in the increasingly potent sunlight.
Of course, if on a weekend I would be up bright and early to make the most of the days off from school. Out on bikes, running around the block on the estate, digging up the earth bank where the cul de sac ended at a field, trespassing on the building sites beyond and writing rude words or insults about my enemies with flinty chalk rocks on the kerbs and tarmac roadways.
Life for an under 11 was idyllic in the month of June. No major cares or concerns, little responsibility or obligation and just time to get on and do favourite activities. The month was sufficiently close to the impending long summer holidays to start to get an excited feeling in the pit of your stomach, in anticipation of an abundance of pure leisure time plus the promise, from parents, of at least a fortnight on an actual holiday.
The fine June weather was ideal to get out and air the family tents and equipment. I would take on the task of counting the metal skewer tent pegs to make sure we had enough and some reserves. It was always amazing how many of the pegs were twisted and distorted as though by strange forces in the canvas storage bag in the loft rather than recalling how difficult it had been to retrieve them from the rocky soils on previous years Scottish cliff top camp sites.
School would be winding down in June for those not at a critical stage in their education and sitting exams. Some of the enlightened teachers, as they perceived themselves, or just plain lazy as we knew took their classes out on the recreation field to sit under a tree.
Sports Day was approaching.
I was always a bit depressed in the summer term when the football goalposts and pitch markings were removed to make way for the wobbly lines and lanes of the running track. It was knackering doing the trials for the 400, 800 and 1500 metres. I nearly always felt like throwing up after the sheer physical effort of getting around to the finish over any distance.
Hazards were everywhere in the name of sporting achievement.
The javelins were extracted from the back of the pavilion along with the ancient collection of leather discus (or is it discii), the shot put balls, stands for the high jump with red and white bar and a rake to clear foot and bum prints from the long jump sandpit. I was reluctant to throw myself into that pit because it doubled up, for the rest of the academic year as an large ashtray, spittoon and worse.
I did make an effort in the athletics events to avoid being impaled on a javelin, decapitated by a discus or knocked out by a stray put shot but mainly to make my Mother proud as she had set the standard in her regular streaking away to victory in the Mums and Dad's Race which was still a regular feature before political correctness spoiled everything.
It is one of my greatest regrets, when a parent myself that I did not get a chance to participate in such an event even though I always attended the sports day with a pair of running spikes in the car boot, just in case.
Before long I was at the exam stage and June and all its evocative odours and atmospheres was largely destroyed by having to revise and plan for O levels and, later, A levels. The same awakening on a warm, muggy morning but coinciding with an exam was accompanied by feelings not in anticipation of fun but dread and nervousness about my future being entirely in my own hands.
The sessions would be spread out over three weeks of June. I dare not relax in between in case my accumulated knowledge disappeared out of my consciousness with such a simple action as the heading of a football or listening to pop music.
The only sign of escape from the intense discipline of revision was the gradual ticking off on the calendar of the days and subjects and the slowly diminishing mound of text and exercise books in the pending pile.
There was actually plenty of time what with the lengthening evenings towards Midsummers. I saw both the earliest of mornings and the latest of nights during my swotting sessions.
June is still a special month for me but working full time means that the days just blend seamlessly into each other. I manage to get up about 6am and the first thing I do is open the back door and take in a deep breath of my past.
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