I've moaned a lot recently about how I don't want to let summer go, but the other day I took a walk through woodlands that were starting to show their autumn colours against a clear, blue sky. It was … well, it was simply sublime, and I started to appreciate exactly what Albert Camus had been on about.
Down in Devon there are ploughed fields aplenty as the farmers plant their winter crops. The wonderful, red soil looks as though it were designed that way to showcase the glorious reds and ochres of the season.
Emi and I are feasting on hazel nuts foraged from the hedgerows. He’s very keen, and it’s carries a resonance from my own childhood, out roaming around in nature’s larder.
I’ve been making chutney and jam, and I’ve even started knitting a scarf for Emi.
There’s something about the evenings drawing in, and the mellow light of September that always gets me back to my knitting. Maybe it’s another resonance from my childhood; a precious memory of sitting round the open fireside in the evenings with my mum, my grandma and their friends as everyone told stories and worked with their needles.
My grandma’s stories were always the best; she had an endless store of tales. She claimed that every one of them was true, but I've long suspected that she was accomplished in the art of fiction. Although, to be fair, whenever we'd ask her to tell us the story about whatever-it-was again, she always managed to re-tell it exactly the same each time.
I miss her now she's gone, and as the year moves through another season it underlines how nothing ever stays the same. We too have seasons in our lives, and with every passing summer I can't help but pause and consider how the sands of time are moving in my own mortal plain.
And, on a less maudlin note, it's a year to the day since a certain fluffy, little fellow joined our family circle.
And this morning, in a fit of glee, he celebrated his anniversary by digging up all my daffodil bulbs!
All the best,