I don't know about you, but the dark clouds of October always give me a feeling of wanderlust.
I became a fan of these dramatic skies when I was a young reporter in the late 1950s, covering the waterfront in the little lake town of Fairport.
On my way home on many a late afternoon along the autumn shoreline, I'd pass the old Diamond Alkali along the Lake Erie shore. That big sooty factory's hulking buildings against the dark skies were eerily lit by sulphur-tinged industrial lights, and I perceived an odd and unexpected beauty there, enhanced by the moving outlines of white seagulls swooping restlessly around against the backdrop of the darkness.
Somehow those sulking clouds that held that scene together would make me want to keep driving; my travellin' foot would grow ticklish on the gas pedal; I'd feel a gypsy spirit overtaking me.
The factory's long gone, but the clouds of October still have that effect on me and probably always will.
(I haven't taken an October night ride for many years. I must get out my broom and get it ready).
(I haven't taken an October night ride for many years. I must get out my broom and get it ready).
