October is a strange month. October is a journey. One has left home, is underway, is going somewhere but is not yet there. Summer might be the destination or not; the escape from winter is like leaving home. October is in-between; nothing has been settled, everything might be possible.October here is unquestionably spring, although the weather might argue otherwise — sometimes it's winter again, as was the case a week ago when snow covered the hills behind Palmerston North; sometimes it's summer and one can bake in shorts and T-shirt on the verandah and think about going for a swim if the river was a summer river, not an October river: if it wasn't discoloured, high and swift. But the lambs are growing fast, the birds are nesting, most of the trees in leaf already or flowering profusely, and the sun sets further to the south-west. This is the time of year when so many animals fight, mate, argue, build, raise young and defend territories. It's a time of trying to claim a patch and settle down.
Yet October, this strange time of year, fills me with restlessness and wanderlust. Maybe I'm as strange as October.
All content © 2009 Pete McGregor
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