Late summer always opened the front door to an aroma of toasted wheat and barley. Long after the crops had been harvested, the aftermath lingered in the air until the rains washed us into autumn. This year smells different.
On a recent evening, it came in through an open window on the breath of a westerly, caught the back of our throats and posed the question – where is it coming from now? Until a few weeks ago, only the old and the middle-aged knew it by name, a different name. We called it stubble burning; now it is wildfire.
