But tonight is another kind of time. Although driven by the sun, it's not predictable like a solstice. It's not even got the hazy precision and doubtful utility of knowing the equinoxes. And it's a day of uncertain prediction and unsure definition. Here in the Beaker Community, we call it "the day the year dies". And this year, I'm calling it for today.
The rain's been falling all day. Outside the sky alternates between gray cloud yielding heavy showers, and clear skies revealing the autumn skies - when the Plough hangs in its sinister way over the landscape (albeit round here it's struggling against the glow off the M1).
Down in the Great Hall the Beaker People are engaged in an important debate - if God is good and omnipotent, how can you explain Waterloo Road? And I should be offering spiritual solace and inspired guidance. But here in my study, the curtains are drawn and a fire warms the room. Meanwhile outside wind form the north-east chills the air. The year has died. It may drag itself along for a few months yet, but we know it's died.
And so I throw a broken-up pallet on the fire and revel in the blue, chemically-enhanced flames. I really must check what preservative they've used, next time I collect a job-lot. Still, it's environmentally friendly and on the bright side all the chemicals are going up the chimney. Autumn is a time of dark, of dying, of predictable despondency. Winter, a time of sleep and quiet. It's Spring that I really fear. Because who can control that? New life is a riot - you can't nail that.
Tip of the pointy hat to Pagans for Archaeology Facebook Group for the link to the article.