Autumn. Is there a season more written about? It's such a nostalgic, wistful time of the year. As we feel the first licks of cold around bare necks, as our feet catch a few fallen crisps of colour, as our breath takes its smoky form in the still of the morning, we are pulled from one season into another. I almost feel ready for the shift, almost ready for boots and blankets, scarves and soup. Almost.
Hips, haws and berries are gleaming in the hedgerows just now and my little one's mouths have been often stained purple from blackberry bingeing. On returning from walks our pockets and bags have been heavy with harvests of foraged fruit. We've made use of the elderberries already and I'm hoping to gather enough rose hips to make a vitamin c rich syrup...on Richard Mabey's advice Eli tried raw Hawthorn berries but reported that they didn't taste a bit like sweet potato.
The boys and I seem to have found a little bit more of an indoor rhythm after some disharmony last week; we're taking it easy, trying not to overstretch ourselves. It's starting to feel easier to stay home and enjoy cosier activities. Our summer window display has been dismantled and the usual leaf, nut and acorn gathering can commence. We even started a little tentative seasonal crafting with some waxed leaves stuck onto transparent film; I think they look lovely with the light behind them at the window but Eli is a little disappointed that the glue is visible so we may have to try again with different materials at some point. Such a perfectionist my boy!
(Eli sporting his latest skate-park style - the vest.)
And so, with an extra layer or two and some berries and spices simmering on the hob, we slowly begin the season.
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