Everyone probably has a favorite time of year. Mine’s September, more particularly the week following Labour Day. For quite a few years, I’ve made a point of trying to get that week off work. Something about that time of year just mesmerizes me. It starts with the light – the colors seem crisper, more vibrant. It might have to do with the angle of the sun; I don’t know. The weather’s still summer-like, but balmier somehow. Around my habitual beach, there’s usually a pleasant breeze keeping things fresh. The hubbub of summer is over.
Seven years ago, my (then) significant other half gave me a great present; one that keeps giving in memory to this day – my favorite week at my favorite place. We’d been planning to drive out to the east coast for that week; to see a friend of mine, take in some sights and sample the seafood specialties. A couple of days before we’re to blast off, Carolyn says, “Why don’t we just go to the cottage for the week instead? I know you love this week there.” Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Carolyn sometimes gave the impression the cottage was more of a chore than a real escape.
It was the best possible week. If there has ever been more perfect weather for that time of year, I can’t recall it – mid 70’s temperatures, sunny skies with just enough clouds to be photogenic, cool nights perfect for sleeping. We rode our bikes, walked on the beach, played a few rounds of golf and enjoyed leisurely barbecued meals on the deck. Most of all, I think we just enjoyed each other in a way we hadn’t for a long time. Every day just had its own perfect rhythm to it. I can re-live the gift of that week with great clarity whenever I want in my memory, and every September, when I’m back enjoying my favorite week.