Warm days and wood smoke nights.

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. 

River Ock ramblings

I've had a longing of late to reconnect with our surroundings and the life we share our local watercourses with. It's been with apt joy that I've been reading Views of the Ock and it's inspired me to take the time to venture further afield and wander the banks of a river I've pretty much taken for granted. I never realised how much wildlife the Ock hosts until I read this wonderful blog, and Rob and I thought we'd take the opportunity to walk part of its course whilst we explored the route of the old Wilts & Berks canal. I blogged about this part of the canal once - it's been four years since last we ventured there. Four years. How could we have left it so long?

We started our little Ock adventure in the early evening, whilst daylight still showed us our way, and we followed the footpaths that led away from houses and superstores, and towards the roar of the busy A34.

My northern soul wants to call it a beck.

We found 14 Second World War anti-tank dragon's teeth tucked away and abandoned in the undergrowth:

Here be dragons... teeth.
(identification courtesy of OckViewer)

Whilst still within the confines of the noisy world of humans we saw only baby moorhens and a grey heron (not at the same time, I hasten to add). But soon we passed under the dual carriageway and open fields beckoned us.

Under the A34. Hey, wait for me!

Here there was a lovely air of abandonment that gave the impression that we were the only wanderers to walk these paths, though I doubt that this was true.

Bridge needs a little work.

Corn stubble, perfect for hares to hide.

It was in these fields of stubbled corn that we saw our first hare bound along the hedgerow. We paused to watch a while before continuing on our way as five partridges scuttled into the tall grass in front of us. It was in this field too that we heard the plaintive keeow of a buzzard. We observed his lazy circles over the treeline before he disappeared out of sight on the other side of the river. With fading light we were unable to get a decent photo, but we continued to walk until day fell fully into night and the moon rose high to guide us.

I'm not saying the moon rose specifically for us, but he definitely helped.

And just as we turned our tails to retrace our steps home a red deer darted across our path. A good wildlife haul already spotted, or so I thought, before a badger snuffled his way into the middle of the field to have a root about. We were motionless as we watched him, afraid that the slightest movement would disturb him. He too, retraced his steps, and returned into the darkness of the hedgerow from where he came.

Back under the underpass we stopped as bats flitted about us, so close I thought I would be able to reach out and touch them. They flew low over the water and skirted above our heads, just as they do when we're sat on the front of our boat on a warm summer evening. But this wasn't the end of our wildlife spotting. There was one more fellow who made himself known before we fully returned to the world of humans. A fox, stealthy in the night, turned to take us in his gaze, swished his tail and was gone into the darkness.

The river Ock may be little, but life abounds about her in the liminal space between day and night, and it was a privilege, for a moment, to experience it.

An Unexpected Guest

Our dinner was disturbed last night by a clatter from the back deck. Lolly was the first to investigate the source of the commotion.

This juvenile cormorant seems not to to have acquired a shyness for humans (or cats) yet. He sat, quite peacefully, on the solar panel rack that I left balancing precariously across the back deck when we painted the roof. Lolly wasn't quite so sure of our visitor. After poking her head out of the door she decided her best course of action was to sneak away and abandon ship.

The cormorant watched her slink by before closing his eyes for a quick snooze. He eventually moved away after dark to sit on the tiller of our neighbour's boat, and Lolly finally felt it safe to return.