The colours of Autumn

The falling leaves drift by my window
The falling leaves of red and gold
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sunburned hands I used to hold...

So sung the great Nat King Cole.  Now, there was a man with a richness in voice that was simply made for this time of year, his gentle croon matching the softening tones of colour and light as the garden enters this most reflective of seasons.  As we approach Halloween, our garden is in a sultry frame of mind, the dying embers of summer now extinguished as it steels itself for the cold months to come.  Leaves are the current fashion here, with birch leaves falling to the ground in immeasurable numbers.  The leaves of the blueberry bushes, meanwhile, are still intact, forming the stunning curtain of pinks and reds, for which these plants are famous.

The colours of Autumn are my favourite of the whole calendar.  It's easy, in a summer month, to take each flower or fiery tone for granted, but on a cold and grey October day, where the sun doesn't show her head and the clouds loom with menace, a single flash of colour is to be received with the same fervour as Howard Carter, when he first stumbled upon that famous tomb.  The best treasure in the last week has been this red admiral butterfly, a late-flyer that I've spotted much more readily this Autumn.  Other remnants of the warmer months are also trying their best to hang on - such as a (very) late flowering pink campion, the final flush of red geraniums, and the true queen of the garden at this time of year, fading with regal dignity, our hydrangea.

To me, nothing in the garden screams Autumn like fungi, and whilst I don't know my mushroom from my toadstool, I'm certainly impressed with these beastly organisms that have found a home - as if by magic - on the woodland bank.  I notice that fungus doesn't tend to stay around too long, and no sooner has it appeared, then it is peppered with holes and knocked about by the elements.  Nonetheless, there's a fascination about it that leaves me intrigued and slightly flummoxed, and like with all things woodland and wild, it is welcome to have a home here.

Around a year ago, I blogged about some garden centre bargains that I picked up in a clearance sale.  Happily I can report that almost everything has thrived (the less said about dahlias and slugs, the better.)  This year I've done a spot more bargain hunting - a winter flowering jasmine for £3; some brunnera plants for £1 each; and a few ferns and primulas that should really kick on next year.  Naturally, my attention has now turned back to our winter border, where I've popped in a few bergenias and dug in a number of winter aconite bulbs.  It's an ongoing project to try and work out what works where in this slightly difficult part of the garden, but with the addition of a couple of hellebores, a few evergreen ferns, and the ever-emerging cyclamens, I'm hopeful of a winter show that encapsulates the season and gives some colour and interest to make our garden a place to enjoy, whatever the month.

Monty Don mentioned in the most recent Gardeners' World magazine that his relationship with his garden will be taking a short hiatus, a little time apart to recharge and become excited again.  Possibly it's because I don't have acres to tend, but I don't share Monty's emotions about our own plot at this time.  Right now the garden is moody, and both of us know it isn't at its best.  However, its character still excites me, and as we push into the ever-damper, colder days of darkness, there's an increased intimacy that I want to find, uncover, and enjoy, far away from the prying eyes of summer.  For the next few months, its just the two of us facing whatever winter wants to throw our way - and we need each other now, possibly more than in any other season.