They like to spend a lot of their time bunched together in the narrow end of the lower field, between our cottage, the wall and the boundary ditch. And much as we enjoy having these creatures as neighbours, their preference for this narrow piece of the field presents certain problems. They have already spent so much time standing around on this small area that the grass there has almost given up the struggle, and much of the ground, thanks to cattle and weather, is a sea of squelch. And our bedroom window opens directly over this midden, together with its flies and farmy fragrances, especially on humid summer evenings.
I always appreciate the presence in their fields of our neighbour cows, and see them go with regretful acceptance of the fact that summer is over. But this year they have gone earlier than usual, hustled away to another field without a goodbye. The reason? They have started to break out of their home territory. A few days earlier, John had noticed that two of them were standing in the little ditch that separates the two fields and were trapped between the two fences. He rang the farmer who arrived to collect them, and to reinforce the fence on his side of the ditch at the same time. But this morning when John drew back our curtains there was a cow in the lane, wandering from verge to verge placidly going on with her life as if scaling a wall and climbing over a ditch was part of her normal routine.
This time the outcome was different. Farmer and his assistants arrived. The verdict? ‘Once they’ve lost respect for a fence it won’t keep them in. If they don’t want to stay in a field you won’t make them.’ While John shepherded away any oncoming cars, the farming quartet steered their rebellious property out into the lane and, eventually, off to what the poet called ‘pastures new’ – though by this stage of the year, that’s not a description that accurately describes any fields locally.
We shall miss them, noisy or quiet, when they’ve gone. It’s always a sad moment when the last animal leaves the fields. By the end of the season the fields look tired, exhausted, spent – and, once empty, lonely, as if they miss their late occupants. For me, the dreariness of winter has finally ended once our neighbour Friesians have arrived, and their departure says ‘summer is over’ more convincingly than does the changing of the clocks.
Elizabeth Gardiner, 1996
August–September
Aug. 28.
Men make wheat-ricks. Mr Hale’s rick fell. Vivid rain-bow.
Aug. 29.
Mr Clement begins to pick hops at Alton. Clavaria [club fungi] appear on the hanger.
Aug. 31.
Many moor-hens on Comb-wood pond.
Sept. 1.
Grass grows on the walks very fast. Garden beans at an end. [ . . .]
Sept. 4.
Hop-picking becomes general; & the women leave their gleaning in the wheat-stubbles. Wheat grows as it stands in the shocks.
Sept. 6.
[ . . .]The flying ants of the small black sort are in great agitation on the zigzag, & are leaving their nests. This business used to be carryed on in August in a warm summer. While these emigrations take place, the Hirundines fare deliciously on the female ants full of eggs. Hop-picking becomes general; & all the kilns, or as they are called in some counties, oasts, are in use. Hops dry brown, & are pretty much subject this year to vinny, or mould.
Sept. 8.
Sowed thirteen rods, on the twelfth part of an acre of grass ground in my own upper Ewel close with 50 pounds weight of Gypsum; also thirteen rods in Do with 50 pounds weight of lime: thirteen rods more in Do with 50 pounds weight of wood & peat-ashes: and four rods more on Do with peat-dust. All these sorts of manures were sown by Bror T. W. on very indifferent grass in the way of experiment.
Sept. 9.
As most of the second brood of Hirundines are now out, the young on fine days congregate in considerable numbers on the church & tower: & it is remarkable that tho’ the generality sit on the battlements & roof, yet many bang or cling for some time by their claws against the surface of the walls in a manner not practised at any other time of their remaining with us. By far the greater number of these amusing birds are house-martins, not swallows, which congregate more on trees. A writer in the Gent. Mag. supposes that the chilly mornings & evenings, at this decline of the year, begin to influence the feelings of the young broods; & that they cluster thus in the hot sunshine to prevent their blood from being benumbed, & themselves from being reduced to a state of untimely torpidity.
Sept. 11.
On this day my niece Anne Woods was married to Mr John Hounsom, who encreases my nephews, & nieces to the number of 59. Mr John White came from Salisbury.
Sept. 12.
Began to light fires in the parlour. J. W. left us.
Sept. 13.
The stream at Gracious street, which fails every dry summer, has run briskly all this year; & seems now to be equal to the current from Wellhead. The rocky channel up the hollow-lane towards Rood has also run with water for months: nor has my great water-tub been dry the summer through.
Sept. 14.
From London three gallons of French brandy, & two gallons of Jamaica rum.
Sept. 15.
Hop women complain of the cold.
Reverend Gilbert White, The Naturalist’s Journal, 1792
Towards the end of August our Highland landscape is swathed in a royal blanket. The heather blooms quickly; whole hillsides are repainted in many shades of purple, sometimes almost in the blink of an eye. It is a febrile transformation which stretches into early September. Countless millions of tiny flowers and little bells open and their heavy scent fills the late summer air, when the atmosphere becomes intoxicating and somnolent. Hints of autumn flicker in and out. On some days the light is golden, and pours across the hills like honey; on others, it is sharp, bright and crisply cold. The nights are no longer white and pearl grey, but darken swiftly.
In the croft fields wild flowers are setting seeds. Insects dart about in search of remaining nectar, their wings white, yellow and orange, some spotted or banded, others translucent, fragile and opalescent. Birds, pale breasted but with colourful caps and bright feathers, chatter and sing as they skim along the river banks and through the fields from seed head to seed head. On the few overhead wires, swallows gather. Their nests in the byre have been tidied and in between the chattering pauses they fly, dipping and flashing across the river, swerving over the fields. On these end-of-summer, sometimes warm days, the air shimmers; insects cascade and billow as myriad birds rush to feed.
The land luxuriates in those snatched days of golden and rose-pink warmth and especially in the scented gift of calm evenings which come in colours of hazy blue, crimson, coral, copper and rose. When the sun finally sets there is a sudden firing of turquoise light which glows like an unexpected glaze on pottery taken freshly from the kiln, so that for a few moments it outshines all else, until it too dissipates. But it is a cold light. It warns of change. Autumn is coming.
The heather’s bloom does not last long, two, perhaps three weeks if the weather is kind. But then the flowers turn to dusty gold. Greens and purples give way to bronze and umber. Soon the fields turn egg-custard yellow with sprinklings of cinnamon where terracotta seed heads of sorrel, burnt-umber plantains and ground-ginger rushes still stand proud. In late afternoon sun the machair now looks more Mediterranean, the dying dryness of flower petals and seed heads weaving into the copper and rust of bracken fronds and the waving grasses.
On the mountains, tussocks of deer grass open out like the coat of a red deer hind parted to reveal the speckled paleness of her under-fur. Almost hidden in the heather, red leaves of tormentil trail like bracelets made of rubies. Sphagnum mosses glow in absinthe and claret, tiny plum-coloured berries of bog rosemary resting on the top of their spongy cushions. Along the shore, close to the croft, russet and orange colour the boulders while on the sands strings of mermaid’s tresses mingle with the auburn feathers of dabberlocks and sugar kelp. Above the strand-line, sorrel seed heads stand like tall, iron-rust swords or flames of vermillion.
Then suddenly the swallows have gone. The air is quieter for their departure, but other, more measured voices fill the spaces: robins singing quiet laments of farewell and longing, separation and loss. Even though I know they are really songs of fighting, boundaries and ownership, and I admire their feistiness, to me they are heralds of summer’s flight to the south. Much higher, in the open spaces above the fields, there are new sounds. Geese begin to arrive, windborne squadrons of raiders from the north, honking and gliding in wedges, and then landing in guffawing gaggles in the meadows by the river. Their calls are powerful, evoking further pangs of melancholy, but they do not stay long. Our croft is one service station on their aerial motorway to their food-filled estuarine winter holiday homes. They feed vigorously and rest. Then, at some unseen signal, they lift and rise up over the hills to slowly disappear from view.
In the woodlands the first trees to betray summer are silver birches: splashes of yellow dapple their fine, shimmering greenery. Here and there, long wavering larch tresses begin to change from deep green to orange and ochre. Gradually the azurite, ultramarine and verdigris of late summer is overlain by Byzantine bronze, copper and gold, and even on days of dull, grey cloud, the oranges and deep russet reds glow as if hot. Slowly, steadily leaves begin to fall: silver birch and aspen leaves descend in gentle cascades like confetti, oak, sycamore and beech leaves spin down crunchily. Hedges are stippled with blackberry and rosehip, woodlands with berry and nut. Fungi of varying size, shape and shade surprise us with their sudden appearance, sprouting here, opening there, tucked alongside old fence posts, logs and branches. And each day, as a little more light is lost, trees, shrubs, herbs and grasses defiantly erupt in volcanic colours to compensate for the coming of the dark and cold.
As September progresses, autumn fiercely rushes towards us in the chaos of Atlantic storms. They are heralded at first by high, thin, white ripples of pearlescent clouds with rainbowed iridescent edges. Soon strong westerly winds blow hard and wet, returning again and again and again to strip trees, churning leaves into skirmishing maelstroms of colour. Summer lochs and coastal seas of turquoise and quicksilver are transformed into pulsating gunmetal grey, cobalt and aquamarine, topped by high jumping horses of brilliantine and white. The shore becomes furious then; sand, shells, stones and ocean detritus are hurled about to crash down into high mounds and ridges. Across the machair mists and mellow fruitfulness are torn apart; birds take to the air and are thrown about like charcoal-black scraps of paper burnt on a fire and caught in updraughts. When the rains come to accompany the winds our rivers and burns convulse and carry leaves, twigs and branches down to the sea. The coastal Highlands become a battleground between land, air and water.
But then, above the tumult in the sea and skies, other, wilder voices of war are heard: stags are corralling their harems and defiantly readying themselves for battle. Their roars and bellows ricochet from crag and hill and echo along the riverbanks. It is the rut. Wild, glorious autumn is here.
Annie Worsley, 2016
Autumn Again
These last days I have spent
doing nothing but reading
your John Clare and the name itself
has come to change meaning.
It is still up on Coombe Hill
and there is late summer sun
boiling the reservoir I’m fishing
today, trying to re-belong.
I regret the fidget in my heart,
my firm-set bad timing,
the inaccuracy of my cast.
The forty-odd miles north of this swim.
Will Burns, 2016
Autumn has been coming on for a while. Even in mid August the signs were all there: colder nights and early morning dew; blackberries deepening and swelling; the sycamore seeds poised for launch. Soon it was the turn of the rosebay willowherb that had bolted through the summer like a lanky teenager. Its perfection past, now it was going to seed, along with the creeping and spear thistles; the architectural spires and precision points gave way to softness as they all shed that downy fluff that you just have to pull off and hold. In our back garden the resident blackbird, distinguishable by his white tail feathers, has made himself scarce. I tell my youngest daughter that Morris (as he’s been named) has gone off to fatten up in the woods, and have a little holiday just like we do. ‘He doesn’t need to do that, Mummy. We’ve got enough plums and apples falling here. And the elderberries.’ (Jemima is a natural forager and has developed a taste for elderberries – in fact, for anything she can find to eat outside. She picked at the elderflowers and ate them, then watched the green berries daily, willing them to turn purple and capsize.)
‘When’s he coming back?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m sure he will,’ I tell her. ‘I hope we can recognise him though, he will have moulted. Some people say this makes them hide away.’
‘Like a bad hair day?’
‘Kind of, but worse. A bad feather day could affect his flying. It could make him feel unsafe, more exposed. But you don’t need to worry about him, he can take care of himself.’
You can’t blame the garden birds for wanting a taste of the wild; for some, of course, our limited patch is only ever just a small part of their feeding ground. The woods and hedgerows are providing an abundance of fruit this year, and the attraction is obvious. By the start of September the sloes are plump and blue already, and the blackberries have been burgeoning for weeks, at times dissolving on the brambles, being too plentiful to be gathered in. Human efforts at blackberry picking seem to be half-hearted this year (my family aside). It must have something to do with how August has dripped its way into an early wet September, the autumnal damp well-established before its rightful time. The badgers in the woods are not sick of blackberries yet – their little latrine pits contain piles of purple dung, full of the tell-tale seeds.
The dog needs his walks despite the rain and so we continue to haunt the landscape. We’re out in fine drizzle once again and I can’t help thinking how quiet the place is now. I share the village with more than two thousand other people, and the woods with just a few; these days I can go for a whole walk without seeing a soul. I think most people are lying when they say they walk their dog at least once a day. But it’s the birdsong I’m missing. It’s understood that birds sing less in the rain, and then of course their seasonal need to sing has past – having found a territory and had their young, their year is complete. H. G. Alexander suggests that blackbirds will sing more in the rain, but presumably not when they’ve stopped the choral ritual anyway. That aside, I know there is a beauty in quietness and I need to retrain my ear.
I have noticed another change inside these woods – the trees seem to be turning faster here than on the outside. I appreciate the gloom could make the leaves show up more when they come to rest on the dark floor, and yet I think there is a little more to it. This is no vast wood – in places it’s little more than a modest strip of broadleaf woodland between fields, just twenty metres across. Daylight can filter in through the canopy overhead and dapple the floor with sunshine. It creeps in from the outer edges, too. But perhaps the trees here register the arrival of autumn before the rest, for some are contained within the canopy and have far less exposure to sunlight.
There is a distinct smell in the air now that I haven’t smelt for almost a year. It’s hard to locate exactly – I don’t know if it’s the damp rotting wood, the overripe fruit, or the moss that’s growing more brightly and more densely as it soaks up the rain. I suspect it’s a combination, and will intensify with the fungi that grow around here and the soon-to-be rotting leaves. When autumn is over there will be a new harvest of sorts, as the wild flowers begin working their way up through this newly replenished soil; old leaf-fall provides the nourishment now, but in time this year’s nutrients will be recycled into leaf and flower.
I head home feeling that the woodland harvest is just beginning, with our own ingathering a little ahead of nature’s own yield. In
the Celtic calendar August marked the start of autumn, with three months of ‘Harvest’. Perhaps this is a more accurate way to look at it, for our own harvest-time is just a small part of the story, and bound up in a delicate balance extending far beyond the edges of the field.
Caroline Greville, 2016
Fungi. In the damp weather of autumn the fungus tribe become very numerous, and often are the first phenomena which remind us of the decline of summer and the approach of cooler season, when
Libra dies somni pares ubi fecerit horas.
There is something remarkable about the growth of fungi. Some fungi appear here and there springing up in places where they are least expected, and where they have perhaps never grown before. How do the seeds come in such places? A learned cryptogamist once said, he thought their semina floated in the air, and were carried up into the clouds, and wafted along with them, and deposited by fogs on the earth’s surface. Is there any particular aspect or side of trees more obnoxious to the growth of parasitical fungi than others?
Thomas Furly Forster, The Pocket Encyclopaedia of Natural Phenomena, published 1827
As the blaze of summer flowers slowly fades, deep in the Chilterns the twinkling purple stars of Chiltern gentians start to appear on the chalk grassland.
Like the orchids in summer, Chiltern gentians seem too elegant and exquisite to be growing wild in our countryside. Clusters of purple star-shaped flowers stand proud above the short grass, each with five pointed petals around a delicate centre of fine white hairs. The county flower of Buckinghamshire, it’s listed as nationally scarce and vulnerable, being found, as the name suggests, only in certain parts of the Chilterns. One such place is Yoesden, a nature reserve acquired by the Berkshire, Buckinghamshire and Oxfordshire Wildlife Trust after a major appeal in 2014. The site is considered one of the most important areas of chalk grassland in the Chilterns. With up to forty plant species in a single square metre, chalk grassland has often been likened to Europe’s answer to the tropical rainforest. This wildlife-rich habitat is in serious decline though, with much of it lost to farming. Saved from the plough by its steep sloping bank, Yoesden is now a reserve full of surprises all year round.
Autumn Page 2
