Autumn, birthdays, Weymouth, and William

William recently turned six months old, and although in some ways it doesn't seem like he's been here for five minutes, in another way it feels as though he's been knocking around our lives forever.  Everybody says that having a baby changes your life, and they're right - everything is somehow different now.  Yes there's the ongoing tiredness and endless early mornings, nappy changes are becoming more-and-more frequent, and quiet moments are snatched at, at the tail-end of days.  But the house is more homey since William came along, blankets feel softer, cooking smells richer, and cuddles are warmer.  I've undergone subtle changes too; if William has had an impact on my personality so far, it's that I am a little more emotional, a lot more patient, and have a heightened enjoyment of the little things.

Talking of enjoying the little things, we took a lovely trip up the coast to Weymouth this week.  There's nothing quite like an out-of-season seaside town to put you in touch with the autumn - the Esplanade was peaceful, the cafes and restaurants quiet, the beach reserved for local dog walkers, and the pavilion (where we stopped for a good hot chocolate, and where the man behind the counter gave Schnitzel a biscuit) warm and welcoming.  It has been years - three decades actually - since I last set foot in Weymouth, but the childhood memories came flooding back as we looked across the sandy beach and enjoyed a promenade along the bright-but-breezy seafront.  I love Dorset in general, and it's a county we've found ourselves visiting with increased frequency over these last couple of years, so I'm hopeful that at some point, Weymouth may provide lifelong memories for William, as it has for me.

Moving through autumn always brings with it the seasonal reflections, but this year I feel more settled within myself, and as I prepare to climb another step on the birthday ladder, I'm feeling more together and in control than I have felt for many years.  Our home is full of love, we are financially secure, everything is relatively peaceful in my relationships, and I feel lucky and grateful.  I know my direction now, I've embraced the maturity that comes with no longer being "young", and I feel that - finally - I've found a way onto the first page of a new chapter, after a long period of rocky soul searching.  And it's this inner peace that will pave the way to a wonderful festive season - William's first Christmas - which I hope will be a joyous and memorable one.

A happy Burgh-Day

Well first-off, hello again world! Nich About Town has been on hiatus for most of 2019, but the time has now come to foray back into the wonderful online world. Not that anybody's missed out on much of an update since last year's honeymoon, for most of our energy this year has been put into our home's building project - more the follow on that.

So to Autumn 2019, and if it's November it must be (yet another) birthday. Last year, 18 November was spent on a plane flying back from Australia, so this year, as if to compensate, Lizzie secretly booked us afternoon tea at the Burgh Island Hotel. 

So  a little bit about the history. Built in 1927 at the height of the marvellous Art Deco style, the hotel quickly became one of the most popular, a real icon of the era. Its location, oppulence and architecture lent itself to the rich and famous, with notable guests including Lord Mountbatten of Burma (last Viceroy of India); Edward VII and Wallis Simpson; Noel Coward; Agatha Christie; and Winston Churchill. 

The world may long have faded since those confident days, but the hotel appears to have lost none of its charm over the decades. Our table in the Palm Court afforded views of both the beautiful coastline, and stunning bar, stocked to the rafters with every conceivable liquor. Tea, as expected, was top-notch; tasty scones with champagne strawberry jam and cream, sandwiches, cakes, a sumptuous spiced pumpkin creme brulee, and a choice of cocktail on arrival. Well, why not...

All-in-all a lovely place to while away a birthday afternoon, in a place that takes you 90 years back, and a thousand miles away from anywhere. Thanks Lizzie!

The rhythm of Autumn

Autumn is in full swing again, bringing with it the usual blaze of colour, chilly skies, and earthy emotions.  The garden is preparing to shut down for another winter - or at least, it is moving into a new phase in its life - as late summer's passionate and exotic hues give way to the season's mellow tones.  For me, autumn is the greatest time of year, offering an opportunity to reflect, to bring in the last of the garden's harvest, and to be thankful for the season of plenty - as well as the festive time to come.  The focus of life, so firmly rooted in the garden over the June, July, August and September, shifts dramatically to indoors now, and leisurely sunshine barbecues and evening al-fresco beers are replaced with hot chocolates, and warming homemade crumbles on the sofa.  Talking of crumbles, Lizzie's first effort of the season is another stunner, made all-the-more pleasing by the fact that all the fruit (and there are apples, blackberries, raspberries, blueberries and blackcurrants) come from our own plot.  They're ingredients that make each-and-every mouthful that much more delicious.

Out on the plot itself, the party has finished amongst all but the hardiest of plants, and the world is bedding down for the cold weather ahead.  There's an urge amongst gardeners to clear and tidy their gardens at this time of year, but I take an entirely different approach, and will largely allow mine to die down naturally.  Fallen leaves and spent stems may not look all that attractive, but they're a God-send to all manner of insects and mammals seeking shelter in the cold nights, and seed heads will provide that extra bit of food to the birds that live in our neighbourhood.  Seed heads also add a wonderfully architectural element to the garden - they can definitely stay for winter.

The season is a very interesting one for those with a naturally inquiring mind, and around the garden at the moment I'm seeing plenty of fungi (including this superb toadstool, below) and a number of oak galls.  Oak galls are formed when an oak tree becomes host to a tiny type of parasitic wasp (Andricus kollari,) which lay eggs on oak buds.  The larvae inject chemicals into the buds to induce abnormal growths which enclose the larvae, giving them a safe space in which to develop.  Oak galls will frequently be seen with a small hole in the bottom - these are emergence holes, which gives you an understanding of just how small these creature are.  As usual, nature is amazing!

November arrives with the first frosts, and by the time I get home from work in the evening, it's already pitch-black.  Over the coming months, I will get but a glimpse of life in the garden, but whilst I leave it to its own devices, I have a strong sense that we're still living on the same rhythm, sharing the beat of the winter as it continues its inexorable march to the spring, when life will once more begin anew, and we will again greet old friends with excitement and vigour.

Autumn musings

The Autumn

Go, sit upon the lofty hill,

And turn your eyes around,

Where waving woods and waters wild

Do hymn an autumn sound.

The summer sun is faint on them - 

The summer flowers depart - 

Sit still - as all transform'd to stone,

Except your musing heart.

Nigella "Love-in-a-mist" seed head

Seed head of the teasel

How there you sat in summer-time,

May yet be in your mind;

And how you heard the green woods sing

Beneath the freshening wind.

Though the same wind now blows around,

You would its blast recall;

For every breath that stirs the trees,

Doth cause a leaf to fall.

The evocative crimson of the blueberry bushes

Fallen oak leaves

Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth

That flesh and dust impart;

We cannot bear its visitings,

When change is on the heart.

Gay words and jests may make us smile,

When Sorrow is asleep;

But other things must make us smile,

When Sorrow bids us weep!

Japanese anemone - an autumn star

Contoneaster throng with berries

The dearest hands that clasp our hands - 

Their presence may be o'er;

The dearest voice that meets our ear,

That tone may come no more!

Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,

Which once refresh'd our mind,

Shall come - as, on those sighing woods,

The chilling autumn wind.

A bumper apple harvest awaits

Acorns

Hear not the wind - view not the woods;

Look out o'er vale and hill - 

In spring, the sky encircled them - 

The sky is round them still.

Come autumn's scathe - come winter's cold - 

Come change - and human fate!

Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,

Can ne'er be desolate.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

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.

Farewell old friend!

April, come she will

When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;

May, she will stay,

Resting in my arms again.

June, she'll change her tune,

In restless walks she'll prowl the night;

July, she will fly

And give no warning to her flight.

August, die she must,

The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;

September, I remember,

A love once new has now grown old.
(Simon & Garfunkel, 1964)

Between the seasons

We are caught somewhat between the seasons.  The saucy, steamy, intense tones of August invoke a tale of perpetual summer, but slowly the mind wanders, from one page of the calendar to the next, and there's a realisation that, counter to the evidence on the ground, the year is slowly, yet irreparably, slipping away.  First, though, to the endless summer, and my favourite plant of the last few weeks, this stunning coreopsis rosea.  The label said it was a good one for the mid-border, as the mass of dainty flowers could be seen from some distance, and it certainly didn't lie.  Even better, it's buzzing with bees, hoverflies, and the occasional butterfly.  What I love most is that the plant's attraction isn't bound by its flowers - the foliage is beautiful in its own right.  It's not fully hardy, so there's a question mark over whether it'll make a return next year; if not, it's certainly going out with a bang.

Coreopsis Rosea

It's fair to say that my herbaceous border is the one spot of colour in a garden that is slowly nestling into the forthcoming autumn.  It looks like it has more fight left too, with an intensity that is refusing to give way.  Rudbeckia summerina yellow is the undeniable king here, its long-lasting fiery flowers lording it over all they survey.  Other delights include fragrant oregano and lavender, whilst round the corner, the little skirts of heleniums blaze a trail into one of next year's projects, thus unknown, but possibly a spring border.  I'm delighted with my late summer border, not least because less than two years ago, this was mostly concrete:

Before - September 2014

After - August 2016

Up the side of the garden, where the land slopes and the soil is dry, thin, poor and shady, I've set about the process in a more naturalised manner.  Foxgloves, periwinkle and a honeysuckle have now joined the dormant-lying polemonium (Jacob's ladder) and primula vialli, and with the introduction next year of red campion and snake's head fritillaries, we'll very much be looking at a patch of native flora - surely a perfect stop-off for moths and butterflies, and a perfect hunting ground for slow worms - rather like the one I disturbed recently in just this location.

Young slow worm... and lunch?

Autumn is coming, but this year I'm determined to have a garden with interest extending through all twelve months of the year.  This weekend, I popped in some new cyclamen, whilst also admiring the first green foliage of last year's returnees.  Along with hellebores, cyclamens are my heroes of winter, flowering for months and not ceasing until they can pass their baton onto a successor - usually the primrose, crocus or early daffodil.  So whilst the sun is still relatively high in the sky, and the heat of summer is still in full swing, it's fair to say that a part of my mind is somewhere in the midwinter, crunching through the frosts to enjoy these little wonders which, although they inhabit the same garden, know a very different world.

Cyclamen

The birds have long since stopped singing, late summer flowering shrubs such as buddleja are finally on the wane, and there's even a small collection of freshly-laid leaves gathering in the corners.  This is the time of year when I begin to most strongly sense the rhythm of nature, through the reassuring chirp of the grasshoppers and the reliability of the blackberry crop.  The enjoyment of a season is always heightened by the firm understanding that everything is finite, yet will infinitely be followed by another - different - opportunity.  For me, the summer-autumn divide is the most soulful and reminiscent of the seasonal changes - it is all-encompassing, and is perhaps the one time when I see the garden, the year, the wildlife, and all the planting, as one whole.

Rudbeckia summerina yellow

Late summer colour

I love our garden

Well, we've reached that time of year once more.  The chill in the air, the nights closing in, Monty Don announcing that next week's Gardeners' World is the final episode of the season.  It's mid-Autumn already, and gardens across the hemisphere are closing down, including here at Oak Tree Drive.

All, however, is not lost.  The gardener's work is never done, and planning is already well underway for next spring.  I'm finding bargains galore with a whole host of perennials, today picking up all the below plants for under ten pounds.  There's a big lavender, presumably reduced because its flowers have gone over and it is starting to look a little leggy (easy to remedy - simply cut back and allow to grow on again next spring.)  There's a dahlia Happy Days which has flowered and is now looking sorry for itself (why not lift the tuber, store over winter, and replant next April?)  There's a buddleia, which again has done its thing for this year (simply plant out, cut back, and let it grow!)  There's a littler patio rose Sweet Dreams (in perfect condition, we'll just nurture it over winter.)  And there's Juniperus chinensis 'Blue Alps', an evergreen shrub bought specifically to fill a gap, and heavily reduced.

Ten pound bargain - reduced perennials

A couple of weeks ago, I harvested my brilliant crop of outdoor tomatoes.  Apparently, blight is ripping through the outdoor tomato crop nationwide, but it obviously hasn't reached my plot, where I've had my best ever year.  Harvesting tomatoes always presents a dilemma for me - do I eat in salads and sandwiches, or preserve for the cold season ahead?  This year I decided to make tomato chutney - both the green and red type - which will extend that wonderful flavour to Christmas and beyond.  In fact, we'll still be eating it when the first crocus bulbs open next February, and the cycle starts anew once again.

Tomato harvest

As Autumn establishes itself with firm grip, so the wildlife responds.  There's been a marked change in garden life recently - the grasshoppers have all gone, as have most of the bees (a late bumble, settling on a white aster earlier today, was a rare and beautiful sight.)  I was very happy though, to discover a young slow worm slithering from leaf-to-leaf in my vegetable garden.  At only 10cm long, it was much smaller than my sightings earlier this year, and strongly suggests that slow worm breeding has been taking place on-site.  This delights me, as our gardening techniques have been so geared towards creatures just like this.  I bothered our newest tenant for a couple of minutes with my camera, before letting it escape to the shelter of a thyme plant.  I was left grinning from ear-to-ear - this sort of thing really does mean so much to me.

Young slow worm

Young slow worm

So here we are, mid-October and the garden shutting down for year.  Of course, there's plenty of boring, non-plant jobs to be doing over the winter (move the water butt, relocate some old paving stones...) but for the delightful side of gardening, that's going to be it for us until the new year roles around, and we are once again wading through snow drops, daffodils and vibrant blue hyacinths.  We'll catch up with all the bees, frogs, slow worms and butterflies then, and already, I cannot wait.  A year of hard work, lots of joy, a few set backs, but plenty to be thankful for as we reach this season of change, all of which makes me realise just how much I love our garden.

The bridleway to Coffinswell

September is often a beautiful month, and here in South Devon, the season has offered us some of the year's best weather.  Cloudless blue skies, albeit with a little bite in the air, has prolonged the gardening season, and really encouraged us to get out and make the best of it, before the impending Autumn falls, and Winter's grip returns.  On a crisp and stunning Sunday morning, we left our front door and headed up into the Woods, destination Coffinswell, a little village a couple of miles away.

At the top of our little housing estate lies Ben Stedham's Wood, a sliver of woodland separating the estate from the back road to Torquay.  It's a lovely wild area and a little haven for wildlife - particularly, at this time of year, fungi.  I don't have much knowledge of mushrooms and toadstools, but their shapes and sizes fascinate me, and this year we have been especially blessed with sheer variety, noticing them both in our own garden, and elsewhere.

Ben Stedham's Wood

Fungi in the woods

The woodland gives way to a bridleway, from where the walker or rider can either head north towards the Teign Estuary, or south to Coffinswell.  Turning south, we pass hedgerows of ferns and young oaks, in which perfect spider webs have been weaved, shimmering in the sun.  Like fungus, I have noticed a proliferation in spiders this September, and webs straddle every space, crossing every path back in our garden.  

Perfect spider web

Lying just off the bridle path, a lesser-known archaeological site is a reminder of the area's ancient connections.  Milber Down Iron Age hillfort sits some 2,500 years old, once inhabited by people of the Dumnoni, the ancient British people who inhabited what is now Devon and Cornwall.  The hillfort itself is not easily distinguishable to the untrained eye, and could easily be overlooked as nothing more than a grazing site for sheep.  Aside from the gentle, overgrown ramparts, the site offers fabulous views over Newton Abbot, from which I spy many of my childhood haunts - Highweek church in the distance (we used to call the downs there the Mountains,) Decoy Lake, and even Seale-Hayne College, now part of the Dame Hannah Rogers Trust - all overshadowed by the omnipresent moors.  If ever one view could encapsulate the word home, then this is surely it for me.

Milber Down in Hutchinson's Diaries, 1853.  Source: Devon.gov.uk

Newton Abbot

Back on the bridleway, we seem to move through several landscapes at some pace.  Woodland gives way to a view of the South Devon link road, under-construction and a big talking point in the town.  Further along still, we overlook a quarry, before suddenly finding ourselves once again back in the middle of the countryside, with rolling green fields ushering us ever closer to the Coffinswell village.  I haven't been to Coffinswell for a number of years, and certainly don't remember it being so pretty.  Thatched cottages and lovely little gardens greet us, and we nose over the low walls with interest to see what the locals are growing.  My favourite garden, although I had not the nerve to so audaciously take a photo, took pride in two enormous purple echiums, no doubt bought from Plant World just up the road, where they are grown each summer (and I fully intend to get my own, next year.)

Beautiful cottage in Coffinswell

Another Coffinswell dwelling

The end point of our little walk is the Linny, the lovely village inn dating from the 14th century.  A very happy welcome within, a drink on an outside table, soaking up the sun and country atmosphere, a reminder to me that when the world is in this sort of mood, there really is nowhere else I'd ever wish to be.

The Linny, Coffinswell

A lovely front garden in Coffinswell