Autumn begins
We went to bed in one season and woke in another.
The party on the last day of August marked more than the end of the month; it started to rain that day and it feels like it hasn't stopped.
Dog walks are sodden. The eaves drip endlessly. The cottage garden planting which tumbles and twines over the paths so romantically in the summer months leaves me drenched from the knees downwards every time I go up and down to the studio.
I, for one, did not grieve. The ambivalent will it won't it nature of this summer has been nothing but exhausting. Hopes and hopelessness. Dreams dashed and blessings counted. I thought the sweet peas would never do anything, and then they did. They really did. The shrubs shot up and the annuals did nothing until about a fortnight ago. It has been a terrible year for the apples, but I have had more plums that I've known what to do with. The roses came early, and then again late.
Lots of things, ravaged by slugs, did nothing at all.
Even now, after months of baking sunshine, the molluscs are not gone but sleeping. Taking pity on the other Dr A, who is on nights in our local hospital this weekend, I have been driving him through the pouring rain rather than let him cycle. I am not usually out in the darkness and I rather wish I hadn't been; when I come home, the glistening wall of the courtyard is thick with snails. I am still researching the optimal arrangements for my ducks, and I am now wondering whether I need to specify that they should be a) perennially ravenously hungry and b) nocturnal.
And so, what with this being the summer I was happy to see the back of, I have welcomed the sudden and rather wet arrival of autumn with alacrity.
The range cooker has been put on its cold weather settings, which means traybakes of the last tomatoes and loaves of sourdough are a daily occurrence.
I may not have lit the wood burner yet, but the sitting room is lit by candles, and the big Welsh woollen blankets have been brought out of the trunk and are being commandeered by dogs.
They are happy whatever the weather, but September means pheasants.
It means other things too. It would mean quinces, but no tree I know has a single fruit on it this year.
It means Japanese anemones. It means finding a dry day to harvest seeds and a wet day to cut hydrangea heads. Today is an auspicious day for sowing flower seeds so it means keeping the seed compost under cover so it doesn't get cold and soggy.
It means blackberries which, in turn, means crumble. The Bramley apple tree that overhangs the neighbour's hedge is dropping fat fruit onto my dahlia beds with pleasing regularity. It is senior enough to not be bothered by the good and bad years that affect lesser trees. The endless wet mean that the blackberries are terrible for preserving or even freezing, but a crumble mix is a forgiving thing. Delia Smith's recipe for the topping, always.
OTHER THINGS I AM DOING THIS WEEK:
| Refreshing the church flowers
| Putting the larkspur seed in the freezer
| Sowing hardy annuals (still some in the sale here)
| Being tempted by cashmere on Vinted, and laughing at the prospect of accidentally finding myself buying Becca's vintage Brora (we got very distracted by autumn wardrobes on the podcast season finale this week)
| Better late than never, scattering green manure seed under the sweet pea teepees so that when I cut them down, there are still roots in the soil
| Despairing of the dahlias, those of them that are in flower are soggy, and many of them aren't
|Tea (the new variety of biscuit tea is life-changing)
|Toast with jam
| Pre-ordering Nigel Slater's new book A Thousand Feasts because the cover implies it is autumnal.
(If you can't wait or are shopping your bookshelves, both Tenders are wonderful for this abundant time of year, and I hear great things about Greenfeast: autumn, winter. Or you could just lose an hour or so on the autumnal section of his website here.)