Postcards from the bothy

Follow the track along the edge of the mere, where the mossy woods slip down the hillside to greet the lake. Look out for a clearing, one with a rope swing hanging over the curving pebbled beach and benches made of thick felled trunks, and, in front of it, an old hatchery with a stone bay full of firewood. Stay for a night and have a rest. Stay for several and leave the world behind, rushing ahead at its insistent pace while you slumber in the woods like Rip Van Winkle, with nothing to do but stoke the stove, heat the soup and knit as the sun sinks over the tops of the fells.

We had a wonderful time at Holme Wood Bothy, resting, playing, eating and sleeping. A little bit of everything, bar work and a sense of time. A week without watches, appointments, school or the office. Without electric lights or the wireless. Even the newspapers were out of date, good only for coaxing the stove into life. We retreated from the world, entering it only to buy thick coils of cumberland sausage or fireside pints at the local pub. And in five days we had a little bit of everything: frost and snow, glorious warming sunshine, and a storm which whipped the lake up into galloping white horses and wet mares’ tails. Proper Easter weather. Spring in the Lakes, unreliable and wild and absurdly beautiful.

I sent a note home to myself, each day, to stick into my diary. Something to remember this little holiday by.  I’ll stick one in each day this week, from Tuesday to Friday. A series of snapshots. Souvenirs, if you will. Postcards, from the bothy.

[whohit]postcardsfromthebothy[/whohit]

Springing

It isn’t quite here yet. It comes and goes in bursts of yellow light and clear blue skies. We are not in the month of April, with its sunshine and showers and weeds sprouting everywhere. Spring has not quite sprung.

And yet… The tomatoes have germinated. Forty-nine new lettuce seedlings are waiting to greet the outside world. The tiny specks of green which marked the celery and celeriac have got taller, and thrust out two fragile leaves apiece. We monitor our busy windowsills each morning for further signs of life. Outside, next year’s parsnips are in. The spinach is beginning to grow again. I have ordered some new hens. And last night we had broccoli from the garden with our fish pie.

Away from the fire the evenings are still shivery, but the days are warming fast. Gloves are discarded on the cycle home from school. Hats lie, unwanted, in the basket. Coats, donned under protest by some, are left unbuttoned by all. The snowdrops are over. The nettles are on the move.

I have almost finished being in: doing all those tasks I promised I’d do by Easter. Soon, very soon, I will be out every day, soaking up the sunshine and the green, green garden. And when it rains, which it will do, because we are in Yorkshire, after all, I can come in again and be pleased that I have a clean kitchen wall to look upon while I boil rhubarb jam and stir fresh greens into the soup.

Everything has its time. Last Sunday we started to plan our summer holidays, and while we were doing so I slipped in an little extra treat for the younger children and I: a trip to the seaside just as spring is turning into summer. A couple of nights in a boarding house, followed by smoked mackerel for breakfast and a race to be the first on the beach. We will dust off the buckets and spades, and dig out our bathers. The season of whelks and ices is coming round again. Soon, soon, but not just yet.

I made the schoolboy error of telling the children of this plan late one afternoon, as soon as our booking was confirmed by the last post. That night I found Ilse still awake long after her bedtime, whispering to her teddies. I can’t sleep, she told me. I’m too excited.

As for me, I went to bed with a head full of garden plans. Some new hens. How I’ll plant each bed. The shape of the days to come, in the spring, when everything is racing into life. My mind rushed from one thing to another, far into the wee hours of the morning, long after my own bedtime. In the morning I told John, bleary eyed, of my wakefulness. He laughed at me: how old are you? You sound just like Ilse.

I don’t care if I do. This is my very favourite time of year, full of hope and anticipation. Anything might happen, and I’ll do my best to make sure that it does. Good times are on their way. The earth is springing into life all around us, and I’m springing, too. Springing, springing, almost sprung.

[whohit]springing[/whohit]

Mothers and sons

Traditionally, Mothering Sunday was the day when people would be allowed to attend their ‘mother’ church – a religious occasion which meant that those in service would be allowed home for the day. Of course, the Great War changed all that – there are so few people working in the big houses nowadays – but I like to think of all those near-grown lads and lasses picking flowers from the hedgerows to greet their mothers with.

We went to our church last Sunday, and the little ones were invited to take flowers from the altar and bring them back to us. Seb picked out a hothouse rose, Ilse a seasonal tulip. Once home, Ilse tucked her pink one into the orange bunch John had bought me on Saturday. But Seb’s rose lay lonely on the kitchen table, with no natural mate. The house is full of flowers: daffodils, tulips and great leggy branches of forsythia, cut from the garden. Yet our own roses stand bare and twiggy in the beds. He looked a little forlorn, until I took down a cut glass vase, just big enough for a single bloom, and trimmed its stem to length. Now it stands beside my bed, the last thing I see at night. Something beautiful, from my boy.

It was Ben’s birthday, too, last weekend: his seventeenth. He still climbed into bed with us, long limbs and all, to open his presents in the morning. It is getting to be a squeeze, this bed of ours, on birthday mornings. Soon, too soon, he will be elsewhere, making his own traditions. But not yet. We showered him with all of ours: gifts before breakfast, a special supper of his choosing, and an outing with a friend or three. A raucous chorus of Happy Birthday. A cake, aflame. Nothing extraordinary, but everything sweet and full of comfortable, familiar ordinariness. We have had seventeen years of practice, to find out what he likes.

He likes to see his grandparents, too. We invited them all to share our Sunday roast: a chicken as a treat, and a home grown fruit crumble for afters. I took the opportunity to give my mother some flowers, and a card I’d stitched on my machine. My own cards, adorned with cups of tea and colourful (if improbable) garden scenes, were lined up on the dresser. I love those homemade cards: crayon on folded paper from some, watercolours on the special laid stuff from others. I cherish the way they appear from under mattresses and stacks of vests. I take care not to tidy too well at such times of year. And I love how there are always more than four, always six or eight or ten, as they are struck by inspiration over and over again. Those funny little cards are the best gift I could have.

Yesterday I dusted the mantelpiece, moving each of Ben’s cards carefully out of the way, daydreaming idly about our upcoming holiday in the Lakes. Meg and I have begun to plan it, sending lists of food and equipment north and south of the Scottish border. She: pickles and cold meats. Fresh perch, fried in butter. Fishing rods. I: beef stew and new sleeping bags. And cake. More than anything, I want to arrive armed with heavy tins of it. I want to send the children into the woods with greaseproof-wrapped slabs in their pockets. I make a list, thinking most of all of what Ben might like. Tiffin, stored with a cut Cox to keep it moist: gingery, Yorkshire. A simnel cake, made by a mother for her children rather than the other, traditional, way around, a fat disc of marzipan melted into its fruity middle. Hot cross buns, full of chopped peel and spice. Easter food. Picnic food. The sort of food that can be served in chunks. The sort of food that boys – and girls, and mothers and fathers and aunties and uncles – crave on long walks with uncertain weather. A last burst of winter food, eaten in front of a bank of crocuses, under a shower of blossom. Food for the start of spring.

As a result, I’ve spent a lot of time poring over my cookbooks this past week, choosing what to bake. I’ll try a few things out, between now and then, recipes I’ve not followed for a while. From over my shoulder, certain voices have made themselves heard. I nod, and assure them that I know what they would choose. I am their mother, after all.

[whohit]mothersandsons[/whohit]

Retreat

Last Sunday found us at Mount Grace Priory, out for the day, doing something different. It was the last day of the holidays, you see, and to go out and be somewhere else is the very best way I know of making it both lasting and special.

Even driving through the countryside is a treat: seeing different places, remembering old landmarks. The bend in the road where our hired motor broke down, once, and we had to keep giving it push starts all the way home. The farm that each of the children visited, with school and willing mothers, to pet the lambs in the spring of their reception year. The turnings to other places we love to visit: Byland Abbey and Helmsley Castle. There have been a lot of last days of the holidays.

We admired the trees, standing bare and boney above the landscape. I think they might be at their most beautiful, like that. Then again, I know I’ll change my mind once they blossom and bud. We looked for rabbits, their white tail ends bobbing madly as they dove for the hedgerows. There was a bird of prey, hovering over a fresh-ploughed field. The first daffodils were braving it.

I’d never been to Mount Grace at this time of year. I’d heard that there would be snowdrops, but was unprepared for the sheer carpets of white that lay under trees and around the becks and bridges. The grounds were alive with bulbs: the little white flowers at their peak and the sturdy spears of daffs and crocuses waiting in the wings. We followed the path to the arts and crafts house, normally vibrant within, but that day the wallpapers looked almost dull compared to the show outside.

There was a pinboard display all about the monastery beyond. I read it with Ilse, who liked the thought of all those monks living side by side in their own little houses. It is a cosy idea, somehow, those people all alone and yet together, somewhere wild and also safe, tucked into the warm end of a valley. Occasionally coming together for prayer and labour, but mostly contemplating the beauty of the universe and the love of its maker.

We wandered out to cell eight, which has been rebuilt and restored, the only home standing in a terraced quadrangle. Downstairs each room was assigned its function: to sleep, to pray, to study. There was a great stone fireplace set into one wall. Above was the workroom, equipped with spinning wheel and loom. A great space, full of light. Below was a glazed cloister. It faced a walled garden, the vegetables kept orderly by box hedges, the fruit bushes lining the path to the latrine set over yet another little stream. Oh, Mummy, said Fliss, I bet you’d love to live here.

In some ways, I really would. I feel at home in its simplicity and purposefulness. I could happily spin and weave, garden and write. I would enjoy the time alone and the time with others. If it wasn’t for one great stumbling block I really would love to live there. NoI said to Fliss, I’d miss you all far too much.

Perhaps a retreat might be the thing, for a weekend or so. A little time away, someday. But I really don’t feel the need, just now. I am very happy where I am: at home, in the thirties, with everyone around me. Family life is messy in all sorts of ways, but I couldn’t give it up.

On the way home, the pheasants were running from our headlamps. The trees were vanishing into a blackening sky. I was tired, yet also rested. Ready for another half term. One day’s retreat, with everyone around me, was all that I had needed.

[whohit]retreat[/whohit]

Collage

Ben and I had to go away at the start of the half term holiday, to help an elderly relative in Sussex. Fliss came to wave us off at the tram stop, early on a frosty morning, before the little ones were even awake. I knew they would be fine, without me. John is more than capable, and Mother and Mrs P were already planning casseroles and invitations to high tea.

It seems they had a lovely time while I was away, full of fun and family. John took the children out for a winter scramble, and to cafes for luncheon on more than one occasion. I missed a tea party for his grandmother, who is now 98 years old. By all accounts my mother in law laid on a real feast, and I was sorry to miss seeing that side of the family. I sent a handmade present in my place: a letter case sewn from pink corduroy, with pockets and edging made from scraps left over from my peonies dress. I put wadding between its layers, to give it body, and a mother of pearl button with a self-fabric loop to hold it closed. Inside were cards, and stamps, a little address book and a pen. Because letters matter, especially when you live alone.

Mother and Father had everyone over for a big meal, and one of her family-famous puddings. My children rave about her puddings, and helping her make one is one of their favourite things to do when they are there. They are building quite a repertoire: Eve’s pudding, crumbles, trifle and steamed suet delights. All served with plenty of custard, of course.

By the time Ben and I were home again, everyone had found their half term rhythm. John had taken a couple of days off work, and the children were filling their time with books, dens, and, more than anything else, making. The last time my mother in law had come to visit, Seb had told her how much he wanted to make a little teddy bear for himself, out of felt, to live in a matchbox. So it was that he came home from Great Grannie’s tea party with a parcel of felt, a head full of plans, and a little sister eager to join in. I came in the door to requests to raid my knitting basket for woollen scraps to stuff their bears, who have accompanied them on their half term adventures ever since.

She had also sent a stack of old gardening pamphlets for me, and as I read them I passed them on to the children. Fliss mixed a flour paste for Ilse and the girls have spent two or three happy afternoons making collages of dream gardens, complete with gnomes, sheds stuffed with books, and blooms improbably out of season. They have abandoned the laws of nature, and turned their backs on the rules. Their gardens are a happy mix of whatever they fancy and nothing more.

Which is what this half term has been, one way and another. Time away, which makes me greet being at home with fresh enthusiasm. And then, once home, a collage of all good things. Time with each child, on their own, catching up. Perhaps it was only a walk to the shops or a ten-minute whisper before the lights went out, but it was precious time alone together nonetheless. Catching up on laundry, and ironing, which is not fun in itself but comes with the satisfaction of seeing everything fresh and ready for another day. A little bit of work on my fair isle cardigan, of which the body is complete and the first sleeve begun. Sewing – lots of sewing: a toilet bag before my journey, and a sweet reversible handbag almost as soon as I came in through the door. It has birds on one side, and velvet on the other, and little round handles. Quick and pleasing, and intended as a gift. Starting and finishing a shirt for Seb in one surprising afternoon, and then some new night things for myself. Looking at all the scraps I am creating and planning a new quilt for Fliss’ bed.

There have been some startlingly bright days since my return, tempered by lots of rain and wind. I am surprised by the swiftness of this week. Half terms fly by so quickly, and are always more of a change than a rest. We know the drill; we all know what to reach for in these February holidays at home. A hodgepodge, a medley, a collage of pleasant things to fill the hours.

[whohit]collage[/whohit]

Summer in Devon, Winter in York

It was Ilse’s turn to help me with my quilt yesterday. I spent the first part of the afternoon in the village hall, listening to her school carol concert – a cacophony of recorders and coconut shell donkey steps, carried off with the exuberance only infants can muster. I had my handkerchief ready – I am prone to welling up when all those little voices wend their way haphazardly through Away in a Manger – but I didn’t need it this year. Ilse is one of the ‘big’ ones now, and I enjoyed watching her play her recorder and organise the tots.

We stopped at the baker’s for two currant buns and headed home for an afternoon of just the pair of us. I’d left the fire laid and supper ready to go into the stove, so all I had to do was make a pot of tea while Ilse ran around closing the curtains, and generally being grown up and helpful.

Since we finished her quilt I have hand-sewn the three layers of my own together in blues and greens: quilting and decorating it in one stroke. I’d sewn the front of the binding in place with the machine and so just needed to spend an extended evening hand-sewing the back of it into place. Ilse’s ‘help’ consisted of her playing her favourite records and rehearsing dances to them in the hallway. Then she would come in, announce a recital, and perform. It made the hand-sewing fly by.

I love this quilt, not because it is particularly beautiful or a show of much skill. It is, in fact, extremely simple in design and execution. The reason I keep gazing at it is that it is pieced from old clothes worn on a special holiday in Devon, eighteen months ago.

My brother Pete and his wife had arranged for the whole family – aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, grandparents – and many friends to spend a week camping on a wooded hill by the sea in South Devon. We took the train down and as we had to carry everything up to the wood from the bus stop three miles away, we packed as lightly as we could. I laid out one old frock and set of underwear for each of the girls and myself. Similarly, John and the boys packed one change of clothes apiece. Bathers, night-things and essential teddy bears went into the knapsacks, and the children were ready to go.

We had the kind of weather we English fantasise about – long, sunny days with unbroken skies, where the air is sultry in the light but blissfully temperate as soon as you step into the shade. There was no cloud watching or chilly breeze; Ben and several of his older cousins abandoned their tents and slept in a clearing, with nothing between them and the hushing of the trees. In the evenings there was a great fire, for fresh fish from the hut along the road, or tins of beans, or potatoes in their skins. Somebody brought an accordion, and someone else, a tin whistle.

The site has no water, so I took the children to bathe in the cove each morning, and rinsed their clothes out in the salt water before spreading them on warm pebbles to dry. The weather broke on the last day; the sea turned grey with the threat of the coming storm and our train was lashed by it all the way north.

When I washed the salt out of the clothes with soap and fresh water they were soft and faded, perfect for climbing trees and getting lost in for the remainder of the summer. Ripped and finally outgrown, I cut them into squares last winter and, in the summer just gone, stitched the squares into four long strips.

The faded blues and greens remind me of the muted Devon landscape in late July. The grass is about to yellow. The leaves of the trees are less verdant, more familiar. The sea sparkles so that it barely has a colour at all, but is just a dazzling sheet of reflected light.

Between the strips I sewed white percale sashing, left over from the sheets I made in January. White for winter and snow, and to bring light into these dark days. A quilt for both summer and winter, finished in time for midwinter’s day, when the balance tips and the days begin to draw themselves out once more. I sewed rows of running stitch dashes to link the two, to say where we have been and where we are now. We will go back again. Back to summer and sunshine and days when all you have to do in the morning is slip on a frock and a pair of sandals. Summer and winter, north and south, sunshine and snow. Neither would be the same without the other. And on cue, the very morning after I finished the quilt, a postcard dropped onto the mat, inviting us to another family camp next year.

[whohit]summerindevonwinterinyork[/whohit]

Little knits

Autumn does not deepen in a steady flow, but hesitantly, advancing and retreating like an incoming tide.

This morning was the occasion of another little rush forwards. We woke up to clear skies and a heavy dew and, suddenly, out of drawers and cupboards, came the little knits. They have been squirrelled away, tucked in, all summer, behind the socks and vests, but their time has come. October is the month for little knits – on go hats and mittens, scarves and socks – enough to keep that nip in the air at bay without recourse to a heavy coat.

Like autumn itself, though, the day will grow warmer before it is colder, and those same hats will be shoved down the sides of satchels on the journey home from school. Because of this, October is also the month of lost little knits. Gloves, discarded, cannot be found when the frost strikes a week later. I sewed Ilse’s mittens to a ribbon and ran it through the arms of her cardigan. The others are disdainfully too old for such precautions, but Ilse, at least, will still have two mitts by November.

Outside, I wished I’d put my new wool socks on. By the time I’d pulled out the shrinking cucumber vines my toes were numb. I found no fewer than twenty-six cucumbers, hiding from the cold in the remains of the lush tangle. The hens were sunbathing, snuggled together in a corner of their run. And happily, the slugs had not ventured near the windfalls.

Inside the house, a ladybird had come to share our warmth. She ambled along the white windowsill, unconscious of how conspicuous she was in her red and black jacket. I took her out to the bush where hundreds of her kind sleep each winter. There is still time for her to bed in.

In the warmth of the afternoon I knitted. At the bottom of my basket, beneath the sleeves and half-knit body of Fliss’ Foxgloves, is a half-finished scarf for Ben. I worked on this, today.

Most of my little knits are made in the summer months. I like to use up the odds and ends of wool – balls left over from cardigans, half a skein remaining from my nordic pullover, or from another little knit. There’s a rhythm to my knitting: cardigans for John and I in the spring and then little knits right through until late September, when I know the children won’t grow out of their new pullovers before they’ve worn them. These smaller knits are easy to take on the train, to the beach, and on a picnic. They don’t lie hot and heavy in my lap. By October, my wool basket is empty and the corners of everyone’s drawers are full of cosiness.

I looked at John in his new hat, and remembered the three evenings I spent knitting it: mid-August, the windows open, a serialisation of the latest Agatha Christie on the Home Service. My own oak leaf hat: a rainy week in July when we couldn’t get out of doors. Ilse’s mittens: the meandering train ride to my brother’s family in Devon, one either way.

When all the others had left, I watched Ilse from our bedroom window as she set off for school, exclaiming over jewelled webs with muffled claps of joy. Those mittens will remind her of dewy mornings, frosty gates and, hopefully, pushing carrots into snowmen’s faces. But they remind me, already, of telegraph poles oscillating by train windows, of the first glimpse of sailboats in Devon harbours, and of the promise of the summer ahead.

[whohit]littleknits[/whohit]

Where the cake is

Now that all four children have been back at school for a couple of weeks, they have fallen into their familiar habit of announcing, on arrival, how good it is to be home. It’s a bit of a family joke this: Benjamin in particular says it with a sideways smile, to please me. Felicity is beginning to adopt the same habit, as her world widens around her, but the little ones truly mean it. I am grateful, each and every afternoon, that we live so close to good schools and don’t need to send the children away. John says that it would benefit Ben and Fliss, but I held my ground on that score, and won.

I waited until they were tucking into their second round of sardines on toast at tea yesterday (because I know that full stomachs lead to more thoughtful answers – from my brood, anyway) before asking what ‘home’ meant to each of them. Actually, I’d asked Mrs P, my daily, the same questions earlier in the day. She’d surveyed me, with the dignity that she somehow maintains even when up to her elbows in soap suds, as if I might be a few pence short. ‘It’s where you go back to at the end of each day’, was her – slightly wondering – response.

Of course, I’d hoped the children would have rather more to their notions of ‘home’ than simply a place to return to, and they didn’t disappoint. Ben (helping himself to bread and jam, now) said that it was a comfortable place to replenish oneself. Fliss told me that it is a safe place where she can forget about ‘outside’ things and curl up in an corner with a book. Seb claimed that it was where the best cake was to be had (which I think he meant as a compliment, rather than a threat to relocate should standards slip) and dear Ilse said that it was where Mummy and Daddy were. (They have all learned to butter me up, in their own ways.)

While we were on Lindisfarne, we visited the castle there, designed by Edwin Lutyens and Gertrude Jekyll. John had written ahead to the housekeeper to arrange a private tour. He is very good at things like that; I would have skulked around the castle mound, surreptitiously admiring the wildflowers whilst hoping I wouldn’t be spotted.

I liked the castle very much. I liked the brickwork herringbone floors, the handles carved to fit comfortably beneath one’s hand, and the stained glass which threw soft and fleeting colour into the rooms without the need for gaudy ornamentation. Despite the design being almost twenty years old – and despite the fact that it is a castle, on a very windy northern island –  it felt quite modern, comfortable and homely.

I also liked Mrs Lilburn, the housekeeper, and think she liked us, for she invited us into her kitchen for tea and fed the children ginger snaps from an unfeasibly large tin. When we left, we all agreed that the kitchen had been our favourite space of all, because (as Seb put it) ‘that’s where everything important happens’. I prefer to think of it as where those things happen that nobody really notices until they stop happening: shopping lists being written, pots being washed, socks being darned.

So, although there are still many (many) changes I long to make to our house, I was pleased to unlock our front door, light the fire in our stove, and put our kettle on. I don’t go out to work, and therefore have a place to ‘go back to at the end of each day’, but I do have a place to which those I love return. There aren’t that many years left before Ben won’t be opening our gate every evening, so I must try my best to make it ‘home’ for them all – with a groaning table, a quiet corner, moist cake and the best version of myself.

[whohit]Where The Cake Is[/whohit]

The second conversion: north to south

[whohit]The second conversion: north to south[/whohit]

John and I decided, as usual, to spend the last few days of the children’s holidays away somewhere. The simple act of being away transforms the final week of the holidays (and all that the phrase carries with it) from a countdown to routine to another meandering adventure in the sunshine.

We camped, visited castles, and lost one another in the sand dunes – I can’t remember the last time I felt so utterly relaxed and at peace with the world.

The children, no doubt, will recall their time by the sea as the highlight of Northumberland. They ate ices every day, then little pots of cockles and winkles, before leaping over waves, and going almost imperceptibly further out to sea with each sideways jump. But for John and I the highlight of the holiday was our time on Lindisfarne.

Cut off from the mainland at high tide, it is an almost mythical land. There are rocks with mustard yellow seaweed, pebbles in every shade of grey, wild flowers and grasses and trees blown so persistently by the wind that they have since bowed down in obedience. On the edge of the village lie the ruins of the priory, from where the second conversion of England began. The first came from the south, from the continent, bringing Christianity like sun in the springtime, the days growing ever longer and sweeter. This second conversion put me in mind of autumn, creeping in from the north, with its mists and frosts and mornings which don’t fully surrender to the sun until near noon.

I love autumn. I love the way it demands commitment – so unlike the fickle, carefree days of summer when we drift from one pursuit to another and know that there is always tomorrow. August: when the fervour of spring is long forgotten, and the sun hangs as heavy on our lawns as the bees droning in the lavender. Autumn days are more precious by far. If we don’t pick the harvests they will vanish, devoured by animals and insects and a stealthy, unexpected blanketing of hard white frost. If we don’t preserve them they will rot, yielding to the grey fuzz of mould and disappointment. We need our sacks of carrots, our strings of onions and bottles of impossibly purple beetroot. Our crumpets, without a smear of glossy red jam, will never convince us, huddled in front of our January fires, of the truth of tales of sunlight.

With that in mind, I took Ilse and Seb berrying the very morning after we came home, and that afternoon had six more jars of blackberry jam in the larder before the older ones were home from school. Suddenly, I am knitting faster, ordering tweed for a new skirt, and taking stock of everyone’s woollen underthings.

In my mind, there are two new beginnings in every year: spring and autumn. As I stood in the ruins of the priory, its roof long fallen and tumbled walls no barrier to the offshore winds, the illusion dissolved. My final summer fling was over: autumn was here. All the way home, winding our way south along the coast, the feeling followed me. The haystacks huddled in shorn fields. The buzzing in the hedgerows had dwindled. The berries on the holly are already as yellow as the seaweed, and on their way to russet. And so, each morning, before the children head off to school, I stir a spoonful of jam into their porridge and embrace another day of autumn.