I have watched summer spill into autumn, counting all the
little changes that add up to mark one season's fading and the other's
awakening. The first of autumn's storms came in on a tumble of leaves and
rain, and our windows leaked to remind us that our boat build is still far from
complete. I missed the departure of the swallows, swifts, and martins over one
weekend, their exit as silent as their arrival in early summer. On a Friday I
watched their agile flight, skimming the river and darting above the boats in
the sunshine, and by Monday, as I emerged after a weekend of illness, the sky
and river was empty of their acrobatic flight.
These days wood smoke from our little chimney is often spotted hanging
low over the water as the nights close in on the equinox. Whilst the days have
seen some warm sunshine, the evenings are quick to cool. We received our winter
coal supply last week. Keeping warm is an expensive business and so we try and
buy whilst merchants sell at summer prices. The arrival of the lorry trundling
down our lane is a sure sign that autumn is near.
 |
| Big lorry made it down a tiny lane (it may have left with bits of willow tree attached). |
This year, for the first
time, the coalman refused to put the coal on our coal pile, and drove off
leaving it in the car park.
 |
| The moment I regretted buying all the coal at once. |
There was no one around to help me shift it so I
started the arduous task alone, before Rob returned home six hours later after
a day's work to carry the rest.
 |
| 20 bags and I'm ready to collapse. |
We are now fully stocked on wood and coal, and I am
sure there will be more storm-felled wood again this year that we will hoard
ready for next winter.
We are still out regularly harvesting late summer and early
autumn fruits. The sloes have peaked early, not waiting for frost's first touch
to make their juices sweet, but turning on the branch instead. Our first pear harvest is in too, collected
from a little tree beside the lake. I have been busy the last few days
squirreling away rosehips for liqueur and tea.
I will be using the old faithful
liqueur recipe from
Foraging London that always has wonderful results. I have
never dried hips for tea before, so this will be a new adventure for me.
As I write this Rob's hedgerow port is bubbling away in a
barrel beside the stove. He has gathered demijohns from friends ready for the
next stage in its brewing. We still need to gather mugwort for our Samhain
brew, and need to catch it before the flowers fade.
This year we have grown our own beans and tomatoes in little
pots behind the marina office. I went to collect my first harvest a week ago only
to discover that someone else had taken what was ripe. I do not mind sharing
what we grow, but first pickings mean a lot to us; the reward for our hard
labours. I do not know who took them, but I hope the vegetables brought cheer
to their table, and that they tasted good. Enough people bring me tokens of
their bakes and garden delights that I do not begrudge the disappearance of a
few of my own crops. We will have enough beans to see us through the winter.
And so slowly, it seems, autumn is creeping upon us, but she
is not in full mantle. Trees are still dressed in green, and there is, as yet,
no signs of the gabble ratchets or the gulls that follow the Thames north in
pursuit of colder climes. I do not know what gulls they are, they fly too high
for me to distinguish any features, but their appearance in the low light of
evening makes us pause whatever we are doing to watch them cross the sky. It is
then, as we wish them well on their journey, that we know that autumn is truly
upon us.
