"Harvest now is over..."

"The harvest now is over, the summer days are gone."
                                                                          Mendelssohn's 'Elijah'

"...and the windows of heaven were opened." Genesis 7 v 11b

In between bouts of ridiculously heavy rain we have had spells of glorious sunshine. During these blissful intervals of warmth the farmer has been harvesting his crops; first he reaped the wheat, and then the oats, and now after weeks of being surrounded by a golden haze, the fields around us are rapidly becoming stubbly and brown.
One morning recently I woke up to find condensation on the inside of my window. For many days past (unless the sun is actually blazing) there has been a distinct chill in the air that nips the nose and sends shivers up the spine; the brambles in the lanes are heavy with glossy blackberries, and the apple boughs are laden with fruit; surely autumn is almost upon us...

Ten Cute Sparrows, Sitting in a Row.

I used to think that sparrows were the most ordinary, uninteresting birds, but since a couple of pairs started rearing their young outside my bedroom window (a cunning ploy on their part, I am sure) I have become completely sold on them. A few months ago a brood made their debut appearance on the square of lawn right in front of my window, where they dashed about in feverish haste, desperate still to be fed by the parents (so desperate in fact that one pursued an adult dunnock around for some minutes, before realising its mistake). Such adorable little balls of pale grey fluff could not fail to melt my heart, and they shot straight to the top of the baby bird Cuteness list, toppling the baby robins from what had seemed a secure and unshakeable first place.

The other day, a second brood appeared - actually I think it might be two broods, there are so many of them (I counted fourteen under the bird feeder the other day, including adults) - and they are as cute as the last lot! After a few days of pleading with their parents to be mouth-fed, they have been learning to forage for themselves, some attempts being more successful than others (the attempt to eat grass seeds that were still attached to a piece of grass three times the length of the sparrow didn't work so well) and last Friday morning about ten of them experimented with a First Wash in the bird bath. The sight of those sparrows all wet and bedraggled would certainly have melted my heart, had it not been completely and utterly liquidated already. Afterwards they lined themselves up in rows, some on the wooden fencing surrounding the oil tank, some on top of the oil tank, some on the outermost branches of the privet hedge, and still others - the most intrepid ones - perching on old twigs of dead ivy on the end wall of next door's house, and preened themselves dry in the sunshine.

Addendum to "Christopher Robin!"

The other day I read an article in The Sunday Times by an Englishman who went to live in America when he was 21, and only recently returned. He talks about all the things he has been rediscovering about England, and at one point he says: "I'd forgotten how it is possible for a shower to last 40 seconds and cover only half a street."

I rest my case...

"The moon was a ghostly galleon..."

"The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding -
                   Riding - riding -
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door."
                                                     From 'The Highwayman' by Alfred Noyes
                                        

The moon is almost full. During the last couple of nights she has climbed her way up through the pine tree, giving tantalising glimpses of light through the black mesh of pine needles, until she appeared at last, elegant and regal, surrounded by a hazy mist, and artistically draped in wispy lengths of cloud.
What is it about the moon that is so magical? Even though science has now told us that she has no light of her own, being instead a reflector for the sun, it takes nothing from her ethereal majesty. And why is she a 'she'? Though there can be no doubt at all that it is so. The sun, big and brash and attention-seeking (we hope!) makes himself the king of the day; he rules over the world with overt confidence (and covert insecurity). But the moon, ever calm amidst the storm, noble and pure, who caresses the sleeping world in a gentle, soothing, perfumed light - she is surely the undisputed Queen of the Night.

Beanz don't always mean Heinz

Yesterday I picked the very first of my runner beans and we had them for supper. They were tender, juicy, succulent, and oh, so tasty! I think it must be the first time in my life that I've ever eaten all my vegetables before touching anything else on my plate! This vegetable growing is definitely a good thing, once I got over the trauma of having to destroy caterpillars.

It really goes against the grain to destroy something that I know will grow into such a pretty creature, but there, such is life. Either they eat, or I eat, and after losing three whole cauliflowers to them I have now become ruthless.
Speaking of caterpillars, the most ghastly thing happened the other evening. I picked some curly kale and most unfortunately forgot to soak it in salt water before cooking. When supper time came, I spooned some onto my plate, and found two freshly steamed caterpillars lying amongst the leaves. I did not eat any curly kale that night.