July is a month of leisure and fruitfulness, holidays in which to bask in decent weather and drink exotic cocktails, cereal crops that swell and ripen in the fields. All ought to be well with the world, except, and I am fairly certain this is a failing of mine, I have neve r been completely comfortable with holidays.
As someone who lives in the English countryside, I don’t really understand the desire to be separated from it at any time of the year, least of all in July. Neither do I understand the point of intentionally ceasing work (unless dead, or at war). Probably that is my upbringing. I find the concept of being at 30,000 feet in a tin can inherently absurd.
