"Late Summer"

In the tradition of Chinese Medicine there are five seasons, the fifth being 'Late Summer'. For my part, I agree with this. There is a turning point in the year that begins in August, and continues on through September, when, though the full splendour of Autumn is not yet upon us, the glory of Summer has past.

"still drinking nectar..."

On days like these, when a chill appears in the air in the early mornings, and the mists begin to hang heavily over the fields, the sunshine (when it comes) is still hot; and whilst the ripening berries shine in the hedgerows like clusters of red and black jewels, neither the conkers, nor the leaves, have yet fallen from the chestnut trees.

And though we are reminded by the catalogues that have started coming through the door, that there are now only three months until Christmas, the butterflies are still drinking nectar, and the bees go on bumbling and buzzing in the flower heads, collecting pollen until they can hardly fly for the weight of it...

Collecting pollen in the sunshine

It's harvest time!*

Red tractors, blue trailers,
The reassuring grumble of the
yellow combine harvesters;
Rain delays, fields half-done,
Drying wind, evening sun;
Golden straw, stomping on stubble,
Straw bale-making, harvest's done!

*Possibly my second most favourite time of the year, after Christmas...

Hibiscus tea (white)

Our hibiscus bush is extraordinarily profuse this year, so I thought it would be a good opportunity to try and make some hibiscus tea; but first I had to find a good recipe... 

As I began to forage around on the internet, the first thing I discovered is that our hibiscus flowers are
not really the right type for making tea, being (I think) an Indian white variety, and not the traditionally-used Jamaican red variety. However, a little comment I came across on a YouTube video suggested that the white variety are still usable, though they make a more delicate, mild tea.

The first thing to do is pick the flower heads and steep them in boiling water.
I picked ten flowers, pulled off the stamens and calyces, and put them in a jug with a pint of water. Then I left them for about ten or fifteen minutes, while I squeezed half a lime, in preparation for the next stage.

Interestingly, I read online that the red Jamaican flowers turn the water a deep red-violet colour, which turns to a deepish pink after the addition of the lime juice; but when I added water to the white flowers, the liquid turned yellow, so I wasn't in the least sure it would work. I thought I might as well continue to the end however, so when the flowers had steeped for long enough, I removed them with a strainer and added the lime juice. And lo and behold, the yellow liquid turned to pink!

A pleasing flavour, reminiscent of grapefruit juice...

N.b Red hibiscus tea is recommended iced, but I tried my white tea when it was still warm, and found I preferred it that way. If you like your tea sweetened, add honey or sugar before the lime juice, whilst the liquid is still hot...


Addendum: We later took this on a picnic; we had it cool, with one soup spoon of honey to one pint of tea, and enjoyed it very much!





  

The Chair of St Peter does it again...

In April I wrote of the apparent accuracy of my weather forecasting proverbs; though as it led to months and months of bitter winter, I've no doubt most of the British population would have preferred me to be wrong!
However, what I failed to mention at the time is that the Chair of St Peter (22nd February), holds not just one forecast, but two. The presence of ice on that day foretold another forty days of ice and wintery weather, but another proverb states that if the sun shines long enough to saddle a horse, a good harvest will be forthcoming. Now I have never saddled a horse myself, but I used to watch my sister do it, and I was pretty sure that the task could have been done in the time; and now the prophecy seems to be coming true - at least as regards this year's fruit harvest.
I have heard several sources say that the long winter has done our apple trees a power of good; and our local cherry trees are fairly drooping under the weight of their rich, dark fruits. And if the roses and bramble blossoms are anything to go by, we are in for a positive glut of rosehips and blackberries later on!

"Dove-grey cloak"

She came across the sea in a boat,
        (a wooden boat, a rowing boat);
She came across the sea in a dove-grey cloak,
         and she stood upon the sand in the rain.

She stepped across the grass,
        (the wet grass, sodden grass),
Out from under the trees in a dove-grey cloak,
         and I knew she was coming to me.

Up the path she came,
        (that steep path, muddy path);
She trudged up the path in her dove-grey cloak,
         and knocked at the knocker on the door.

They let her in, they took her cloak,
        (that wet cloak, drenched cloak);
They gave her brandy by the open fire,
         and then they sent for me.

They sent for me and I came,
        (down the staircase, old oak staircase),
Across the floor to the open fire,
         where she sat, waiting, for me.

         And what were the feelings that tumbled through my breast?
         (oh! proud breast, unforgiving breast!)
         Would I turn her again from my door?

I knelt at her feet, and kissed her hand,
        (and the tears coursed down my cheeks);
For she had gone because I sent her,
         but she returned to the need in me.

Topsy-turvy weather...

It is an English springtime tradition that the weather should hardly stay the same for two minutes together in April, and yesterday certainly followed tradition:
First it was hot, then it was cold, then it was dry, then it was raining (then it was hailing); then the wind dried everything up but brought the temperature down; then the sun came out and warmed it up again; now the sky is a deep azure blue, now it's a milky haze, now it's a dirty grey from horizon to horizon. But at least it's a useful topic for conversation! And not only that, but everyone seems to have seen or read a different weather forecast, so we can all argue in an amicable way about what's going to happen next...


 

"It's too cold..."

On the 2nd February (Groundhog day in America, Candlemas in England), there is a proverb that says overcast and cloudy weather on this day heralds an early spring; bright, sunny weather on the other hand, predicts forty more days of winter. Candlemas this year was bright and sunny...
However, those forty days should have finished round about the middle of March, and winter is still here. Unfortunately there is another weather proverb, this time for the day of the Chair of St Peter (or Washington's birthday in the US), on 22nd February, which says that the presence of ice on this day foretells another forty days of winter (and ice), which takes us well into April. As this latter proverb is of German origin I had hoped it wouldn't apply to us, but the continuing frosts, chill winds, and the layer of ice that still covers our garden pond, would seem to say otherwise.

However, picnics in bad weather is something of a British tradition, so yesterday, for an Easter treat, my father and I set off with a flask of home-made butternut squash soup, some home-made gluten-free 'Kentish Huffkins' (filled with buttery-egg, and manchego cheese), and the dog, to a nearby village with a very picturesque village green. Sitting in the car in the full sunshine, it was really quite warm behind glass. Outside however, as we took a brief walk around the green, the perishing cold wind pursued us at every turn, whipping our faces as we walked down one side and freezing the backs of our necks as we walked up the other. Despite the sunshine, it was not what you might call encouraging sort of weather, and we did not linger. We soon discovered we were not the only ones to feel this way, for when we got as far as the cricket pavilion we saw a notice attached to the railings, flapping in the breeze. It said: