Far, far away in the Summerlands, someone's morning washing dries crisply on a rustic line. Gently drifting in the light breeze, it keeps the seaside hut company under the baking sun.

Though here, on the other side of the world, in the Lands of the North, although it should be summer at this time of year, the sky is sullen grey, with the warmth of the sun hidden.

Strangely bitterly cold for a summer day. Earlier the sun was trying to peek through but the cloud veil was too strong and it soon gave up trying. No early morning patch of sunshine today.

I waited and waited for a patch of golden sun but eventually gave in and so I sit alone, on the tiny porch, in a drizzle sodden chair, sneaking a quick smoke before the rest of the family wakes. Solitude with the early morning birds.

Where is my summer sunbeam? Its always a good reason to take a break and enjoy a smoke in the sun.

But when the suns not there and the smoke has been delayed for ages, waiting patiently for the friendly warmth then in the end the smoke wins and is like an old friend - the only comforter.

Already, too soon and almost imperceptibly - its getting darker earlier and I know that winter approaches.

The lands of the North, though, are blessed with those magical long, long sunlit nights where darkness visits only for an hour or two before whispering away to visit somewhere else.

Somewhere far, far away the sun bakes the earth and the mielies grow taller reaching for the light.

But not here, not now.