Looking at the old photographs my mother was showing my children, I realised the rosie glow I was feeling wasn’t only because they were innocent images of my childhood. Naked and holding hands with my brothers, looking cold at the top of a Scottish mountain in my favourite (very flimsy) dress, long forgotten pets and endless sunny picnics, my childhood memories are bound to make me misty eyed. But the actual photographs have become as warm as my memories. I think it’s something to do with the printing paper and the ink used in the 1970’s. Thirty five years on, and the greens and blues are turning orange. Everything is suffused with light and warmth.
In fact, I thought as we drove home through a very similar landscape of golden stubble and pale earth, that those photographs looked like they were taken now. Parched grass and sun through seed heads, dust and orange skies. Bright sunlight seeping round the edges of everything. According to my family photo album, we lived in a world of perpetual long hot Septembers. Even the Christmas trees looked sun drenched. And so for as long as this 70’s style September weather remains, I’m trying to keep hold of that weightless happiness of my early childhood.