Autumn

'Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness' (John Keats - To Autumn 1820)

There is something so very special about autumn, something enormously comforting and sumptuous. The stunning visual display of the trees and woodlands, the smell of wood smoke and sweet rotting apples in the orchards and a preparation for winter. A time for hibernation, stacking the logs for the onset of the colder evenings, stocking up the larders with home made jams and chutneys and the selection of new ingredients and produce the season brings.

Again, we turn to food: Hearty stews with dumplings and thick, restorative soups, an assortment of game as the shooting season begins, roasting chestnuts outdoors and the puddings which of course get warmer and stickier as we all acquire our extra layers for the colder months.

The colours offer a feast for the eyes, the beauty of the misty mornings and, my favourite, the autumn ritual of walks in the woods to marvel at the abundance of shiny conkers, crisp, fallen leaves of every shape and size and array of fungi, the forager's delight. All this followed by the scramble back home to the warmth of the kitchen, struggling to pull off muddy wellies, drying out the obligatory collection of treasures (including pine cones to burn on the fire) and curling up with a creamy hot chocolate or mug of soup by the fireside.

It is also a time of festivals, commencing with the traditional celebration of the harvest festival which benefits those in our communities most in need, but also the plethora of Apple Fests (particularly in this part of the country) and well received Beer Festivals promoting the darker ales and porters to toast the progressing year, often accompanied by the display of the Morris (men) upholding tradition with a welcome for the new season.

 

At October's end, All Hallows' Eve, believed to have both pagan and Christian beginnings, comes candlelit ghost stories, apple bobbing and smiling pumpkins lighting up the night. I have always celebrated this time of year and embraced the oncoming darker evenings with thoughts of the mystery they may hold.

For me, autumn culminates with Guy Fawkes night and again, a stimulation of the senses: the smell of sausages spitting on outdoor grills, the fizzing of the fireworks, huge bonfires spiked with hot potatoes, the both sweet and sour delight of toffee apples and children holding sparklers in their tiny gloved hands, writing their names into the darkness, their faces lit up with enchantment and fascination.

I recall a couple of favourites, the first, many years ago in the Gloucestershire village of Gotherington where my aunt lived, a local event where all the village had come together in celebration of that one night, so steeped in long forgotten history. The night was so very dark, as country nights are, that the muddy lanes and paths were lit only by hand torches and the moon. I remember the feeling of being part of something, a gathering, a community. The second, only last year, was at a pub called The Crown at Frampton Mansell, near Stroud. If you get a chance to visit, then do! They host an amazing display. Last year, the theme was the Olympics and for the finale, the grand construction of the rings over Tower Bridge were lit and we watched as they slowly disintegrated into the night sky.

Our country is so full of tradition, of folk lore and ritual, Celtic, Pagan, Christian, all deeply entwined and celebrated still. This time of year has a calendar full to brimming, all set against the wonderful backdrop of the changing colour and transposing landscape, magnificently emblazed by the bright harvest moon.

From the hedgerow

The abundance of fresh, tasty and free fruit at this time of year is a wonder to behold. Our hedges are bursting with plump, delicious blackberries weighing down the brambles and staining our fingers, apples and pears of every variety filling orchards, gardens and roadsides, trees groaning with plums, damsons, quinces, the list goes on. Our country is so rich in its produce and a delight we should savour.

As Autumn advances, the fruit harvest takes on a central importance and kitchens bustle with cooks hovering over huge battered pans of jams and chutneys, flavouring gins and wines and bagging up fruit to sell at local farmers' markets or on makeshift tables at the cottage door.

The allotments too take on a new lease of life, far from bedding down for winter, there is the harvest of the last of the tomatoes and runner beans and the welcome crop of potatoes, carrots, marrows and pumpkins is revealed in its place. It fascinates me. I love it all. I love to watch the allotment gardeners in the fading light, bent and absorbed, capturing all of the day, using every bit of it. Their reward to trudge home with a treasure of freshly grown and lovingly tended produce. Remind me why anyone would buy imported fresh food from a supermarket again??

I have the good fortune to have a damson tree in my garden and each September it never fails to delight and entice me with its bounty of ripe, sweet, purple fruit. The ritual of picking is one I relish, climbing the tree, balancing precariously and shaking the branches to release the fruit onto the mossy ground below. The same day they are pricked and steeped in jars of sugar, gin and this year, vodka too. By next year they will be ready for a tipple on the cold mornings of the game shoot or to drink by the fire at Christmas time. I have also tried chutney this year, which I await to taste with baited breath. That may take a little more work, I fear!

As the seasons change and each brings with it its own special riches and expectations, the inherent traditions continue and one lesson perhaps to learn is that we must conserve our hedgerows and our countryside and allow it to continue to thrive. How poor our life would be without it.

The book that changed everything...

Cider with Rosie by Laurie Lee

'The day was over and we had used it, running errands or prowling the fields. When evening came we returned to the kitchen, back to its smoky comfort, in from the rapidly cooling air, to its wrappings of warmth and comfort.'

This novel, if you don't know it, recollects the author's boyhood and coming of age set against the backdrop of the Cotswold valleys and was first published way back in 1959.

I came upon it through necessity rather than choice - it was part of the National Curriculum - and at 12, my love affair began. Now, I read it annually, browse its well worn pages frequently and savour every perfect word.

For me, it is so much more than just a book. Not only is it a condensed history and, sometimes harsh, record of country life with all its characters and tradition but it is written in such rich prose with evocative description and sensuous language that it can take you there. Back to a time where life was uncomplicated, guided by the valleys' landscape, seasons and most importantly, its community.

Its legacy draws me to Slad (Laurie Lee's village within the Stroud valleys) regularly and to The Woolpack, his local pub and still the hub of the village.

Naturally, my one true regret is not meeting the man. My idol. I know several who have had the pleasure and I know that he could be a difficult, somewhat enigmatic character but I know too that he was warm and charming and that if I had turned up in the bar of The Woolpack and bought him a pint, I am sure that we would have had a good chat, whether about the rising price of ale or the local cricket score. It really wouldn't have mattered. Just one conversation would have been enough.

Sometimes, I see his widow, Kathy, in the pub. She retains all the beauty of her youth and has a sparkle in her eyes and allure which has not diminished with age. 

And it is there, where I can look out over the valley and still dream about walking in to find Laurie sitting on his regular stool in the corner, bemoaning the state of the economy, muttering into his Uley beer and he is there, with me...

An Introduction

An Introduction...

And so, welcome to my first blog entry. Borne from both curiosity and the desire to share a little knowledge (and some favourite photographs).

I was actually born and grew up in a large city so nothing of the rural idyll I now speak of. My love for the countryside has evolved over the years and is coloured by a number of factors about which I'm sure I will elaborate as my blog unfolds.

As a child I lived in Norway, where the seasons dictated to us and life in the very rural countryside was, I realise now, the most perfect childhood I could have received. Long sun filled days where darkness never fell in the summer months and the nightly visit of Aurora Borealis in the winter were simple pleasures and all part of life on our remote farm.

There, my deep love of the countryside and rural living had both blossomed and grown.