There is something very appealing in the idea of our lives and projects as journeys, ones which transform our daily uneventful routine into an adventure and bestow purpose and meaning beyond what we could see unassisted.

But perhaps another sort of journey, and one that is not centred on ourselves, is our travel through the seasons, a spiral that is always the same and always different. It is a road without an end and so it invites us to walk along without expectation. Its greatest gift is that arrival is impossible.

Sometimes, on a rare hot day, the warm breeze brings the scent of lime blossom. In an unexpected moment, its gentle soothing aroma suddenly reaches far into the depths of our memories and dreams, wakes them up, stirs a vague wistful feeling long forgotten, and then just as suddenly disappears.

What is there in the summer sky when we finally look at it? Sometimes the comforting softness of clouds, sometimes sheer emptiness and a blank slate. It may be well to leave it blank and unspoilt.