Resurfacing after a mad two months, half of which hasn’t been spent at home. Catching up with messages and somehow wondering how Elfi is six months already this week.
Current status: the house is a mess, the garden’s a jungle, and the children are feral.
There is also a curious aspect I hadn’t thought of – that of writing facing the front of the house again. Our bedroom faces south, to the back garden – I am now adjacent to the north-facing window looking out onto the front garden. And, suddenly, there is a strange mental shift to being part of our village facing the front rather than the back.
Notebook, Lydia Crow, 7th January 2023
There is something very satisfying about raking leaves. I always absentmindedly find myself humming Mary Chapin Carpenter’s “This Shirt”, and repeating lines from “A Song of Sherwood” by Alfred Noyes (even if most of the poem is out of season right now).
Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold,
Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould,
Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red,
And wake Will Scarlett from his leafy forest bed.
The pears and plums were the first to fall (only a hardy few hanging on), followed by the apples (half down to date). The larger cherry is turning yellow from the inside out, and falling oh-so-slowly. Only two or three have fallen so far from Osa’s Oak, though the colours are stunning.
I am sure that I picked up the phrase “misty, moisty mornings” from Susan Hill’s “Through the Kitchen Window” many, many moons ago. She was describing those autumn days with mushroom blooming everywhere. It seems fitting for today.
We’ve had an excellent harvest from our apple trees this year. I’m still frantically trying to figure out what to do with them all.
There was a stunning sky this morning, as the others slept. A beautiful pink light filtered in between blinds and curtains.
Apple-picking season has begun!
Early morning September sunshine in the cottage garden at Stempster.
