AS Mother Nature heads south to escape the vagaries of a northern winter, we say goodbye to long days and balmy nights.

Not that we have had many of the latter this year, but you get my gist.
Apologies, dear reader, for coming over all maudlin this week, but it’s that time of year. A cavernous coal bunker is begging to be filled, there’s a woodpile to build and three chimneys to be swept as the waning of the glorious summer bloom of the garden warns that winter is preparing its comeback.

Yet there are aspects of summertime that I shall not miss, such as loud firework displays to rent the tranquillity of the Boulivot heights after dusk and reduce two normally feisty Jack Russells to quivering wrecks.

As the nights close in, the dew falls earlier and ever heavier and the evening temperature drops, it is thankfully time to pack away barbecues. Without appearing to be too much of a killjoy, the first whiff of meat sizzling on the griddle over hot coals sends me for cover.

À chacun son goût, as they say across the water, but burnt sausages, overcooked or undercooked cuts of meats and burgers curled up at the greasy edges are not what I regard as a culinary al fresco feast. Give me a classic English afternoon tea, laid out prettily on an embroidered tablecloth and served in bone china.

The onset of autumn does have its pleasures, like swimming in the sea at this most delightful time of year as the tides spring higher and the water temperature approaches its annual high. It is at moments like this that I find myself pitying those who cannot dip a toe in the briny, even in a heatwave, without covering themselves from head to toe in a wetsuit.

The biggest jolt into the reality of the onset of autumn will happen next week, when the Island’s schools return. How we, who have remained at our desks to keep the cogs of the economy turning, have enjoyed August mornings, sailing into town unheeded and traffic-jam-free to find car parks with places aplenty.
Now we can all look forward to the Mont Millais meander or Victoria Avenue conga creep, as the school-run convoys return, while those who walk or cycle return to four wheels as the weather turns for the worst.

At least the traffic jams give us more time to enjoy the entertaining banter and chirpiness of Chris Evans on Radio Two. Whoever said Terry Wogan would be irreplaceable could not have been more wrong.

The traditional finale of summer on the rock comes next Thursday with the International Air Show. The recent uncertainty over the participation of the Red Arrows following the fatal crash which claimed the life of Flt-Lieut Jon Egging raised doubts as to whether the show would be the usual massive draw – which is a shame, because in my book the Red Arrows are not the star attraction of the event.

When it comes to the highlight of the show, there is nothing to compare with the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight’s Lancaster, Spitfire and Hurricane.

As we marvel at the thrill of the Red Arrows’ aerobatics, we should never forget that the pilots are trained not just to induce ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ from appreciative onlookers, but to engage in combat wherever and whenever the country commands.

Their comrades are currently on active duty in Afghanistan and aiding the rebels in the overthrow of Gaddafi in Libya – a world so far removed from air displays on sunny days and hero pilots signing autographs for starry-eyed schoolboys.

Today’s fighter pilots are no different from their World War Two predecessors, who 71 ago this very month took to the skies above England to prevent an invasion by the German forces tantalisingly close across the Channel.
It saddens me that, with the passage of time, attention has turned to the modern fighter aircraft which now dominate the show, but I am resigned to being in the minority.

In September 1939 there were far more disconcerting occurrences to worry about than the onset of winter, traffic jams and whether or not a major event in the calendar would be a success. Seventy-two years ago tomorrow Britain declared war on Germany, two days after the invasion of Poland that precipitated the devastation of Europe and cost tens of millions of lives.

We live with the consequences of that dreadful conflict to this day and probably will for eternity, which is good reason why we should forever be mindful of the debt we owe those who fought for the peace.

Every so often in this still sadly troubled world, something truly awful happens to jog us out of our sense of security. It can be the massacre of youngsters on an idyllic Norwegian island or the multiple murders in our own back yard.
At such tragic times, the everyday frustrations of modern life pale into insignificance when compared to the misfortunes of others.

As we go about preparing for winter, or when stuck in the school traffic, spare a thought for those among us with problems far greater than most – especially the families of two little girls whose names will be missing from Monday’s roll call.

May they and their families find the peace and quiet they need to carry on with life.