Most of us in Britain are unsure when Autumn ends and winter begins. Not least this year, when the last cold winter has bumped back the whole seasonal cycle, meaning the Autumn leaves hung around until,...well, they’re still doing a pretty good job of hanging in there as I write. Which is something, surely? Temperature-wise however, you might feel that rather than holding off Winter, that Autumn rather rolled over and died some weeks ago. The snow here in, ah, Snowdonia, is down to the valleys. As XTC once asked, "who's pushing the pedals on the Season Cycle?"
The fact is that officially, astronomically, autumn in the UK begins with the September equinox (September 23 this year) and ends with the December solstice (December 21). So it’s still Autumn for a while yet. As such, Keats’ Ode To Autumn – the classic text everyone wheels out on these occasions – can make for strange reading. Did they have a totally different climate in 1819, when he wrote this and his other odes (he'd die a year later)? Because his description of Autumn sounds more like the best we can expect from a summer two centuries on. “Season of mists,” well, yes, check, indeed let’s add “freezing fog”: but “mellow fruitfulness”? “Edgy barrenness” more like.
But, look around you and that’s not quite the case. Especially here in Snowdonia.
For years I thought November was bare. If it was a colour, it was grey. But in recent years I’ve noticed that November’s true colour is red. And this year, December looks like it’ll have a crimson tinge too. Oh, I don’t mean the shrivelled blackberries on the brambles, surreal as mayflowers in February. And yes, I know we’ve missed the rowans. But there are fuchsias blooming all down the hillside from my cottage. There are fruiting Pyracanthas in people's gardens. There are cotoneasters (the first pic at the top) growing wild in the quarries and on the hillside. There's this stuff that I don't even know the name of. Berberis?
There are rosehips, past their prime for jelly (I made some last year, which was possibly the sweetest thing I've ever tasted; this year I missed the boat) but still a startling crimson.
These hips were shot early morning just down the road from my cottage: Tan Y Fron is an arty blur behind the berries.
On top of that there’s holly on the boughs. Forecasting a harsh winter, apparently. To which it's tempting to say, simply, "no kidding? We hadn't noticed. Erasmus eat your heart out."
And there’s hawthorn berries, lots of hawthorn berries. Tan Y Fron is positively hemmed in by blazing russet hawthorns.
The old word for hawthorn berries, “haws”, doesn’t get used much now, for obvious reasons. The berries themselves don’t get used much either, many people erroneously assuming that both they and rowans are poisonous. My partner has a fantastic cookery book, Farmehouse Fare, which collects farmer’s wives recipes from the 1930s. When I looked up “haws” in it, there was a recipe for haw sauce. But they clearly thought that its use was so obvious that they didn’t bother to say what to serve it with. I made some anyway. It’s weird, but it’s delicious. But no, I still haven’t quite decided what to serve it with.
The point is though, Autumn in Britain gets a bad press. OK, so your energy supplier has "reassessed" your direct debit payment to match the temperature. Granted, it's a bad time for a garden party, outdoor wedding or for trying and paint the outside of your house (the only one of those three I've tried so far this Autumn). But with one of the most stunning array of turning leaves to be seen in decades, and a rich crop of red berries and flowers everywhere you turn, Autumn's also just a beautiful time of year. Especially in Snowdonia.
Feel like seeing for yourself? Visit my cottage website.
No comments:
Post a Comment