A tourist in your own town

There has been an almost imperceptible turn in the air today. It began with mist on the hills, meaning that this August Bank Holiday promises to include a last blast of Summer heat before the scents of Autumn begin to drift into town.

I love it when we get back from a scorching holiday in somewhere like Cordoba to find that our arrival coincides with the gentle let-down of a September Indian Summer.

In the right weather conditions, the smell of cooking bacon wafts up from the next-door deli, and when the warmth of the pavement creates an updraft against the facade of the house, you can actually make out the individual scents of every person walking past, 40 feet down in the street below.

Every woman or girl wears their favourite perfume and I find myself appreciating each one. I am normally very fussy about perfume, but I can forgive Ambre Solaire every time, just for reminding me of past holidays by the sea.

The coach-loads of Spanish, Italian and French schoolchildren have been replaced by their grandparents now, and they mingle in the streets with British children still out from school. I love tourists. They remind me of being a tourist myself.

Being in the moment can include looking to the future but without making plans. It is also allowed to recall the past if that helps too. There are no rules.

I am looking forward to Autumn.