Every year, for some unexplained reason, I feel the Midsummer's call.
Perhaps it's he fact that I grew up with a healthy half-belief in faeries, perhaps its the pull of the sun or perhaps it's a jumble of half-remembered stories that makes me think that magic at large on this night.
Whatever it is, Midsummer makes me want to walk barefoot through tall grasses, and dance naked beneath the moon. It makes me want to wake up before sunrise, pick wild flowers in the bloom of the afternoon, and watch firelight flicker through the dusk.
And so this year, as Midsummer's Eve dawned bright and warm, I decided to honour the call. Even though it was just an ordinary Wednesday, and nobody would understand, and it sounded a little pagan, and it was just us three at home.
We tied ribbons from the trees, gathered wood for our fire, picked flowers together in the tangled jumble of our garden and wove them into a crown. We set out flowers and stones on our little table and then I sat in the earth with my boy by my side and lit us a Midsummer's fire.
And as the sun set and the fire crackled, and we sat on the grass drinking elderflower fizz and eating the charred feast from the fire and laughing, laughing with John, I realised I'd made my own Midsummer's magic.
Because for one special night we were celebrating the beauty of life in the great outdoors, and it was quiet and simple and magical, and everything that Midsummer's Eve should be.