As the sun went down on a late July evening, I was enjoying some relative calm in my Hitchin garden as monumental summer storms apparently bedevilled the rest of the country,writes Sparky.

And in stark contrast to the heroics being demonstrated by the early Olympic competitors on the telly, my chosen activity at this particular moment in time is what these sporting types might refer to as 'ultra-low impact', i.e., sitting in the garden at twilight, nursing a glass of ale, whilst staring at the sky and letting my mind wander where it will.

A key part of this involved watching a large screech of swifts as they swooped, glided and jinked their way noisily overhead.

It's been a good year around here for these little fellas and I have thoroughly enjoyed their company since May and their display of aeronautic mastery on this particular evening had been particularly outstanding: watch and learn, clattering woodpigeons, watch and learn.

But something was gently but perceptibly gnawing away at my reverie, and it was this: such moments as these are always fleeting and we would all soon need to let go of the swifts, and indeed the summer, as both have somewhere else to be as the siren call of the south is irresistible.

There is some joy to be had on a cold and bright winter's day, and who doesn't get misty eyed at the prospect of a stomp through mounds of crunchy leaves on a russet-clad autumn evening?

And spring! you must have a heart of stone not to adore this season of rebirth and all its wonders. And of course, this warm summer's evening with a cold beer in hand.

Enjoying each of these moments is one of life's simple pleasures, an enjoyment that seems to appreciate with age- like a good wine- and I firmly believe that their transience enhances the pleasure.

But wait a moment, it is this that surely lies at the heart of my slight unease with August.

It should be a month of unbridled joy from start to finish, but unlike February, whose demise marks the long hoped for end of winter and the slide into spring, and golden May that paves the way to a glorious summer, what journey is August taking us on exactly? And where does it end?

I think we all know the answer to that.

I am sure that I am not alone in thinking that August is always tinged with a sense of endings rather than beginnings and by way of research I have spoken to several friends about this recently and all have voiced similar slight misgivings.

Before we get too gloomy, we need to perhaps remind ourselves that it is still high summer and most of us should have some extra free time to enjoy all that August has to offer- it is, after all, named after Caesar Augustus, the Roman leader who ruled over one of the longest periods of relative peace in the empire's history, so that's got be a good omen, right?

And it wasn't just the Romans who knew how to party: our very own pagans had long divided the year into eight parts- each divided by festivals and celebrated with a good knees-up- which were linked to the passages of the sun and the moon and the changing of the seasons.

Lammas on August 1st is the 'festival of the first fruits' and celebrates the coming harvest, not only of wheat and barley, but of all fruits, berries and nuts too.

This was a time of plenty and was inevitably marked with much feasting and drinking. But our ancestors also knew what was coming and wisely laid down enough supplies to hopefully see them all through the darker times to come.

After the influence of the pagans and druids declined, elements of these August celebrations continued to live on in the British countryside - not only in the far more sober Christian harvest festival - but also in the shape of the legendary Sir John Barleycorn.

This mythical character was the spirit of the barley harvest made flesh and whose roots may be traced back to the earlier pagan god of vegetation - the very same deity that was sacrificed in the fire in 'The Wicker Man' to ensure a fine harvest.

His enduring influence was assured in the cautionary lyric of a 400-year-old British folk song as well as in Robert Burns' poetic reworking of 1782.

And we all know what magic - and indeed trouble - can arise from those two infamous products of barley grain: beer and whisky.

Many pubs were named after this character and some of us in Hitchin will remember our very own in Oughtonhead Way, but fewer of us will have known the story behind the name until now.

I think we should all once again raise a glass to this fine gentleman.

A walk in the countryside at this time is always a treat and a couple of weeks ago it was a joy to see hay being harvested in the meadows near Wallington.

But we are now moving into the time of the grain harvest proper and as you can see from my picture, the wheat in the fields is ready to go: a true image of August. This will soon all be stubble if the rain holds off.

And talking of rain, did you know that the average rainfall in Hitchin in the apparently cold, wet and miserable old month of February is some 35mm?

It's a shame then that the average for August is an even more impressive 48mm, and most of that seems to have fallen already this time around.

This has affected not only the harvest but local wildlife too; the second brood of swallow chicks, which should be fledging now, are struggling in the damp when they should really be getting in the practise air miles before their inaugural trip to sub-Saharan Africa in just one month's time.

All of this merely confirms the old adage that the British summer is 'three fine days then a thunderstorm'.

But before we get too glum, the longer-range forecast is looking good with high pressure apparently building from the middle of next week, and when the sun shines in August it can shine good, so fingers crossed.

So, there are many reasons to be cheerful in August and it is certainly more than just the 'gateway to autumn' as some would say: it is a time of bountiful harvest and there is always beauty and splendour to be had on our very own doorstep. Even when it's raining. I should perhaps banish my doubts regarding this most august of months.

And as I write this a lone swift has just flown overhead.

So, both they, and summer, are still here.