“Slow living is conscious, intentional, mindful, and living deeply.”

(source)

The slow living philosophy is growing. We are (slowly) coming to the realisation that a fast-paced consumerist society is not the key to happiness or fulfilment. Instead, we crave a less-is-more approach with a focus on quality of life, in whatever form that takes for each individual.

For some, that might mean a huge lifestyle change - opting for a tiny home; changing jobs; keeping chickens - but for others it might just be that extra twenty minutes in the morning, sat in candlelight with a simple breakfast and mug of tea. The varied individual approaches matter very little; of more importance is the idea we should savour every minute instead of count them.

Last month, a break away from the norm forced me to explore my own vision of slow living, and question whether or not I’d been embracing it fully; perhaps unsurprisingly, I returned home with a head full of changes I wanted - needed - to make.

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Family-owned Warborne Farm sits in the south of the New Forest, not too far from the coast. Run on organic principles for the past three decades, it is very much still a working farm, and tractors chug in and out of the yard daily, much to my son’s delight! Dan and I visited with Monty (18 months at the time) and stayed in the Grain Loft, a rustic barn conversion on the first floor. Monty’s favourite part was - by far - the walk on window, through which he could see chickens pecking all day long. Each morning of our visit began with a request to go see the chickens, but 6am was a little early for the birds, and all was still dark below until around 7.

With no real agenda, the days began slowly, wrapped up reading books in bed and padding through to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee and begin making breakfast. Candles were lit at every meal, and instead of rushing to finish and move on to the next activity, we lingered at the table, happy to chat and read a few pages more.

Staying in the New Forest meant a daily walk was of course on the cards. We ventured into the woods searching for ponies and falling autumn leaves, and stretched our legs on the heath to find cows, cobwebs and drizzling rain.

Back at the farm, we picked tomatoes, herbs and garlic for dinner that evening. Eggs from the chickens were a staple during our stay, too. We’re no strangers to growing our own - our veg patch feeds our extended family throughout the year, and we’re self-sufficient in many things over the summer months - but in a different location I was reminded how enjoyable these tasks can be. Every action can bring pleasure, if approached with the right mindset.

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Almost a month has passed since we returned from our trip to Warborne, and slowly, I’m making some changes. A single beeswax candle burns in the centre of the table for each meal; a celebration of the meal ahead. We’ve slowed our morning routine to incorporate reading in bed as a family, not rushing to move downstairs too soon. I’ve also stopped pressurising myself to do activities and trips with Monty, choosing instead to embrace the slow everyday; collecting windfall apples, meandering around the top field, pausing to look at berries and leaves, tractor-watching around the village. Sometimes a look at someone else’s everyday is enough to make you re-prioritise your own. Thank you Warborne Farm for being that reminder.

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Collaboration Note:  Thank you to Fanny and George at Warborne Farm for inviting us to stay.  All words, thoughts and images are my own. 

Today we’re introducing you to Elliot Channer, a wildlife sculptor and artist.

Eleanor: I’d love for you to start by telling us more about you and your business, who you are and what it is you do?

Elliot: I have been a wildlife sculptor for 4 years, exhibiting across the country with numerous galleries. I have now set about creating my own online gallery focusing solely on wildlife art. Avocet Fine Art represent some of the UK’s finest wildlife and equine artists and provides affordable, high quality originals, prints and sculpture.  

Eleanor: Can you tell me about where you find your inspiration?

Elliot: Inspiration for my sculpture comes from the natural world: from British garden birds and animals to exotic birds of paradise. I gather all the visual information I can and create a metal armature onto which I add clay slowing allowing the form to develop.

Eleanor: I am also interested in knowing more about how you view creativity; is it something you can rely on every day, can you work at it, or do you have to wait for it to strike?

Elliot: I find creativity to be quite unpredictable. It can take hold and I will work non-stop throughout the day but, at other times, when it simply isn’t happening, I ensure everything is working well with Avocet: uploading new works; contacting artists and clients and keeping social media up to date.

Eleanor: Where do you work? What’s important about your work space?

Elliot: I work from my studio in Staffordshire, both for sculpting and working with Avocet. The space reflects my interest in art, displaying my work and other pieces I have collected - from reclaimed carved pieces to a Violet Astor print (one of the artists represented by Avocet.)

Eleanor: Can you tell me why nature and wildlife are important to you, and how they influence the work you do?

Elliot: I have been interested in wildlife from an early age and find nature hugely inspiring. I enjoy the challenge of translating the life and dynamism of animals into solid bronze. I spend many hours outdoors looking for inspiration for my next sculpture. Through Avocet I now have the pleasure of being involved with other artists who share my inspiration of the natural world.   

Eleanor: And lastly, if someone reading your story were inspired to follow their own creative dream, what advice would you give them?

Elliot: My advice would be to go for it. It’s important to listen to people who have been in your situation, and to be patient.  

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Find out more about Elliot on his website, shop his pieces here, or follow him on instagram and twitter.

Last week I took myself off for a solitary walk. This is something I often do when I’m feeling overwhelmed or, in this particular case, a bit flat. I suspect it’s got a lot to do with our Hebridean climate: relentless rain and brooding grey skies which seem to hang around for weeks on end, oppressive and almost smothering. The mountains disappear into the thick mists leaving you enveloped in a confining, murky little world. So naturally I seized the first opportunity to escape that came along (child in school: tick; essential jobs done: tick; a break in the weather: tick) and went down past the grounds of an old country estate, along a track overlooking the cliffs and the Cuillin hills, past pine forests and down to the shore.

Yes, the views were spectacular. A boat bobbing about in the blue water and the equally blue skies dotted with fast-moving little clouds, those mountains once again in full view and sunlit. The trail continued past a little white crofter’s cottage, over a rushing burn and then curled steeply upwards into the densely-packed firs.

But I’ve always been interested in the details. I’m passionate about all things botanical and now, when summer feels long gone, there’s so much still to see

The bracken is blanketing the hillsides and banks down to the sea, but their bright emerald has given way to soft copper. The fronds are dry and brittle, frozen into delicate curlicues. Thistles have dried out and gone to seed. The heather is fading, the tough stems beneath bleached to silver and the violet flowers turning sepia.

Patches of gorse are reduced to masses of brown thorns. They look as though they’d be more at home in an arid landscape than this richly green island. And the umbellifers have been transformed into simple, stark structures; they could almost be fashioned from metal. Grasses are blanched too and their calico colours glow in the low autumn sun.

All this denuding allows us to really study and appreciate the forms of our familiar wayside plants. Little vessels of seeds, skeletal stems. For an artist like me, it’s a lesson in simplicity (something I’m constantly trying to achieve). Pared-back and unadorned, we can really understand what makes each species different from the next. Yes, in the warmer seasons they have their flowers and leaves. But when everything is suddenly reduced to a muted palette of pewter, sepia and rust we have to look more closely and notice the subtleties and beauty that lies beneath.

I love the verdancy of May and June, the richness of July and August. But it’s now when the armfuls of teasels, the rattling foxglove stems full of seeds come home with me to live in the workroom. Pots of them, each one asking to be sketched quickly and simply without fuss or detail. Even out in the garden there are plants which, for me, are more appealing once their time has passed. Sunflowers are at their most beautiful when their petals turn to saffron-coloured tissue paper and their seeds are on display. Lilies and poppies too, and alliums transformed into delicate wiry globes studded with tiny black seeds.

Don’t lament the lack of colour. Nature has so much magic and ingenuity to be found now that all is revealed…

Once we’re in the heart of autumn, there’s nothing I love more than to embrace every piece of autumn’s magic that surrounds me.

I’ll come back home and warm my hands around a steaming mug of tea and empty my pockets of foraged autumn treasures. I’ll fill the home with warmth, bundle knitted throws across the beds and sofas, set candles alight and let their soft glow fill the rooms, and allow the subtle scent of spices sweep in through the kitchen as autumn treats are left to bake in the oven.

And so, until this season fades, I’ll have plenty of memories savoured from autumn to last through the grey and moody winter days.

I want to savour this season as much as I can, before winter catches autumn in its grasp. Before the trees shudder in winter’s harsh icy winds; leaving them unclothed from their robes of gold. Before the first frost forms over chilly nights, entrapping everything in its icy crystals. And before the afternoon sun is drifted off to sleep as winter’s darkness creeps in earlier.

But before winter arrives, I’ll relish this season that brings me joy and cosiness. I’ll head out into the hills and mountains where mist from mornings sweep through the landscapes and hang within the golden trees, hugging them in a mystical blanket of cloud. Sink my boots into paths of dry crisp leaves, kicking them up in the air and listening to them crunch and rustle under my feet.

I’ll get lost amongst the forests and wander off the beaten track, and let the soft autumn sun that gleams through the canopies warm my cold blushed cheeks and nose. Sit by a lake and watch as the sycamore seeds pirouette in the breeze and land gracefully upon the water. Enjoy gatherings around a crackling bonfire, toasting marshmallows and watching fireworks soar up above, illuminating the night sky with bursts of colour.

Kayleigh Wright

For the French, summer ends on the 31st August. By September 1st suitcases are back under beds, campgrounds are returned to fields and the bistro tables are stacked in a corner. Autumn isn’t for holidays, or campouts. It’s for chestnuts and open fires, first batch cider and jam.

So, why do the seasons bleed into each other so much on our side of the channel? Is it because we hope, every year, for an Indian Summer, or because we have multiple summers; bursts of blue-sky days throughout the year that we throw ourselves into because we know they won’t last?

Last Christmas I was gifted a Firebox. It sat, oiled and beautifully black, in its canvas bag while I waited for summer.

Now we’re looking to Christmas again but my Firebox is grey, mottled with rusty creaks and misshapen corners. The bar across the middle is bowed from heat and the weight of feasts. We handle it with gloves to protect the smoke-parched skin of our fingers and as the nights get cool we layer silk liners underneath so we can keep cooking throughout the autumn. Dry leaves and a breeze: perfect campfire conditions. So we keep our eyes to the sky, summer’s over but it’s activities don’t have to be.

Courgette Flatbreads

If you’ve got a few courgettes left over from the summer harvest, this simple recipe is a great introduction to campfire cooking.

Ingredients

• Courgettes (1 large one p/p)

• Lemon - rind & juice

• Fresh rosemary

• Chilli flakes

• Olive oil

Method

Measure out 125ml of flour (any available, wholemeal/plain mix is particularly good) and season. Stir ½ tsp of yeast into 15ml of warm water. Add to the flour along with a tbsp of olive oil. Add boiling water until it forms a soft dough. Kneed and leave to rest for 20 minutes. Before griddling, divide the dough and flatten into discs.

Chop the courgettes into thin discs and zest the lemon. Heat a little oil in a large, flat pan and add the courgettes to soften. During cooking add the lemon zest, chopped rosemary, chilli flakes and seasoning. Once the courgettes are soft, push them to the edge of the pan and cook the flatbreads one at a time. Turn the flatbreads until they’re charred on both sides.

When everything’s cooked put the flatbreads on plates, top with hummus or cream cheese and spoon on the courgettes. If you like it zesty, you can squeeze over the lemon juice at this point, or toss in a few cherry tomatoes if you have them.

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Sweet Potato Hash

Ingredients

• Sweet Potatoes, roughly chopped into small pieces

• Onion, diced

• Eggs (1pp)

• Cumin seeds

• Thyme, rosemary or oregano

Method

Cook the onion and sweet potato until soft and starting to caramelize. Add the herbs and season well. When you’re happy with the potato, break it up with a fork to make a jumbly, lumyp mess. Clear holes in the mixture and crack an egg into each one of these spaces. The pan should be hot enough to cook the eggs quickly, then scoop onto plates with some fire-charred vegetables or an apple and hazelnut salad.

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Chilli Beans

An extra warming bowl, perfect for cold hands!

Ingredients

• Kidney, black or mixed beans (1 can does 2 people)

• Small tin of sweet corn

• Small red onion

• Red pepper

• Chopped tomatoes or passata

• Paprika

• Chilli

• Cumin seeds

• Mixed herbs

• Stock cube

Method

Heat oil in a large, shallow pan and fry the onion and pepper. Add the rinsed beans and sweet corn and fry for a few minutes. Crumble in half a stock cube per can of beans, stir in a generous mix of the herbs & spices before pouring in the chopped tomatoes or passata. You want to coat the beans, rather than make a sauce, so allow the tomatoes to reduce as they cook. If the mix starts to stick, add more tomatoes or a little water. Season to taste and enjoy a bowlful with avocado, salad or simply on its own.

The concept of new starts always arrives hand in hand with January 1st as the New Year rolls out with the clock's final chime. Despite that, the bleakness of January doesn't always inspire the optimistic positivity that we might hope for. I think there's a second new start though, and it comes a little more graciously and with a lot less flamboyance. September arrives with the retreat of summer, more quietly and calmly than we might expect and with it comes the second chance we might be yearning for after the boldness of a long summer.

As temperatures begin to even out, I always find a soothing satisfaction when things start to slow down a little and a chill creeps back into the air with nimble fingers. Alongside that runs another more ineffable sense of freshness. Maybe it's the new academic term that carries with it my inexplicable love affair with crisp notebooks and sharpened pencils. I'm sure I revel in this feeling a lot more now that I'm not actually returning to school myself but there's something oddly attractive about the idea of a new school year ahead. More than that, September signals the arrival of a changing weather, as leaves begin to darken and fall and everything hums with the anticipation of a change in the air.  Just like a catchy song, I find it infectious and I drift easily into admiring the changing colours. What else might change now? What might the next season hold for me?

September also brings us closer to the autumn equinox, which this year falls on the 23rd of the month. After that day, the nights begin to extend a little longer and though this heralds a longer darkness it always seems somehow soothing to me too. It offers a time to recharge ourselves, rest a little. Like seeds begin the surface, the beginning of autumn can signal a time to go inward and then grow out. Autumn is a time of change, a gateway to the next season and while for some Autumn seems the gateway to an ending, I want to check in with that transformative part. It does define the end of summer and soon the entrance of winter with cold days and long nights but for me though, it isn't about ending but about beginning the next cycle.

It's a period that reflects reality because we all move through these cycles and as autumn starts to slow us down it also reminds us of the importance of taking things more slowly, of savouring the smaller moments. It's a time to shed what might no longer be needed, to harvest and cherish what we do need and to prepare for all that we want to come. It could be a time to reconnect with friends and families during cosier nights in or a time to enact an autumn clean and reflect and focus on the projects that might have been forgotten in the heat of the summer or even begin a new one.

Autumn always reminds me of how transitory things are and though it can bring a sense of loss to watch the summer fade, it also carries a reminder that can keep us mindful. It reminds me that just as the seasons will change so will we and that (clichéd though it may be to say) everything is temporary and that doesn't have to be a negative thing. We can use this to remember that even the hardest things will come to pass and that what can seem as insurmountable or as dark as a long winter night will come to pass too. It encourages me to try and live in the moment and appreciate what I have. We're so linked to the natural cycles around us and Autumn is a fitting reminder that everything, including us, has both highs and lows that we can keep on moving and progressing through.

Hannah Franklin

Find Hannah on Instagram

It is Autumn. Slowly bringing us home again to the innate desire for cosy, family, connection. Warming chatter to share the wonder of the natural changes of the season amongst us. Children playing in the leaves, relishing the adventure that nature provides. It comes but once every year. It is Autumn.

We are safely within its grasp. Beckoned into nature to witness its stirring performance of transformation. Blink and you miss the spectacle of colour, the tie-dying of every piece of fauna and flora, the breeze’s change of tempo and the trees’ hoarse whispers in the wind.

May I ask you to take a walk in my company, down a woodland trail with a golden canopy to keep our stories from flying away as they fill the air. May I ask you to take gentle care to notice every beautiful detail of this season with me: let's remember it all.

I seek:

Tiny hazel caps scattered across the frosted grass.

Leaves chasing each other in the cooling breeze across meadow grass and crooked pavements.

The warmth of golden colours sends stirring feelings through our bodies, touching our souls with a reassuring 'welcome home.'

I see:

Sun-kissed skin and cold, rosy cheeks, with scarves enveloping our necks as we embrace the chill of first light.

A sea of golden leafy puddles to jump in.

A carpet of earthy colours to guide our way on a favourite trail.

The wildlife slowing down in their quiet way, forming dens and safe hideaways while gathering the trees’ offerings as they fall to the ground.

I hear:

The pure chirps of a robin’s morning chorus as the sun rises.

A soft humming in the trees as they prepare to let their leaves go from the safety of their aging branches.

I feel:

Promises of nestling down into a warming slumber as the sunsets visit earlier each evening.

The excitement of change as the long summer closes down, and the familiar sights around us transform before our very eyes.

Energy touching every flower as it curls up and prepares to fade back into the soil having bloomed so tirelessly in weeks before.

Time. Slowing down. Asking that we do the same.

What do you seek, see, hear and feel this Autumn? I hope you experience it all with awe and wonder with whatever you may find.

Amelia Goodall

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Image: Eleanor McAlister-Dilks

The cold wind moans, cracking the bones of the ash trees that edge the garden. I close the stiff latch on the gate and walk down the path, watching leaves dart to the ground to form inelegant splodges of yellow. Although the afternoon has barely begun, the sky is stained with darkness, clouds rolling in above the hedges of the bridleway at the far end of the adjoining field. I’m frozen for a moment as I spot a hare spring from a gap in the fence. Even though I recognise him as a resident of this patch of land, I don’t expect to see him in the eye of the storm, and my breath catches until my fingers nip.

He’s not the only tenant around here. Fiercely decorated male pheasants stalk for seeds and grain in the tall grasses that separate the agricultural land from the domestic. Their echoing cok-cok reverberates around the valley until a farm vehicle thunders by, and they screech through the tree-tops to escape the mechanical movements.

Autumn marks the end of the harvest, but the start of the farming year. It is the season of great flux, of colours, temperatures and daylight hours; perhaps the most obvious change, though, is that of the trees. Find out more about how these natural wonders communicate, explore their importance in wild education and discover how they inspire creativity in the latest issue of the magazine.

You’ll find other roots in this issue too: those of friendship, of landscape and connection and of home. Don’t miss an exploration of how we can reconnect with our roots too, or go back in time to discover the history and mystery of a Cumbrian icon.

I hope you enjoy the season ahead.

This is an extract from the editor’s note for issue 5. To buy a copy of the magazine, visit our online shop (please note orders placed from now until October 8th will not be posted until Tuesday 9th).

A lane which winds, narrow, flanked by hedgerows. The incline steep at first, an old brewery tops the hill. Another twist, a field comes into view. Carried across the wind the sound of livestock, calling. The road levels out and opens up. Turn left or right at the fork. Onward to the top road, where brambles tangled tight with hawthorn line the stream, a gully trapping precious jewelled fruit between water and eager hands. Out of reach, until a branch is found, turned at one end. The perfect tool. Grasping now, he holds my belt while I stretch. A little further, my toe dips into the water. One sharp tug and the branch is freed. Scarlet berries hang over my head, tantalising, asking to be picked. I fill my basket. Hawthorns nestle with blackberries and sloes, nettle leaves for soothing tea and elderberries to pair with tart apples from the walled garden. Life is good now. A simple thing, a piece of fruit picked by a cold hand. Tossed into a woven basket and carried thus, to be splashed and sorted, cooled or pressed, warmed then sieved. These actions once alien are now natural. But time is passing. Nights draw in and occasions for collecting grow slim. A freezer drawer sits crammed with packages marked cooked, jam, gin, crumble. Until next year, when the sun shines long and rain feeds the hedgerows. I’ll see you then in the lane, basket in hand.

People feel a pull towards the countryside for all manner of reasons. Perhaps the countryside is the farm you grew up on, surrounded by rippling hills and a sky that can never make up its mind. Perhaps it’s the city worker in London who leaves the office an hour early on Fridays, catching a train to the New Forest and popping a tent in the overhead luggage rack. For many, and I would go as far to say the majority, a love of the countryside dances between these two extremes; those who live in what was once a village and is now a sprawling estate filled with photocopied houses. If you live in one of these places, you’ll see a secondary school that you avoid driving past when the bell goes and the road is full of buses and saloon cars. The corner shop will only let them in two at a time and the post office will open after you’ve left for work and shuts before you manage to get back. You’ll spot the same elderly man in a neat tie and jacket walking to get his one pint of milk and half dozen eggs twice a week – at exactly the same time – and you’ll always make sure to smile when he catches your eye. The village hall will run a weight loss club on Tuesdays and Thursdays and the morris dancers will begin to filter in, bells jingling, before the closing motivational speech has finished. These are the suburbs on the outskirts of towns and cities. No, they don’t have chocolate box cottages and the postman doesn’t want to stop for a chat, but they are where so many of us live.

I have always been part of this latter camp, and yet the outdoors has nagged at me to pay attention to it for as long as I can remember. Especially now, as an adult, my walking boots are taken out of the airing cupboard if I anticipate a few empty evening hours or spot a spare weekend on the horizon.  Sometimes, it isn’t as easy to immerse yourself in the countryside when it’s practically difficult to get out to. When you live in the grey area between city and country, it’s easy to feel detached from both places. I’m definitely no expert, and there have been weeks that have gone by where the nearest I’ve gotten to the countryside is Matt Baker discussing the migratory habits of fenland birds on Countryfile. That being said, there are some rituals and routines that I do genuinely try and include to re-centre myself with the outdoors, especially in the weeks that see summer transition into autumn.

When there is less of a guarantee that you’ll be able to set up camp beside a river for a long, light filled day, you sometimes have to be a little more creative to maintain a routine that naturally aligns itself with nature’s constant shifting.

A Decent Waterproof

A decent waterproof doesn’t necessarily mean a new waterproof, or an expensive one. A borrowed jacket that keeps off the worst of a blustery, drizzly day means that weather isn’t an excuse for not popping out or taking that weekend hike even when the weather app is full of dark grey clouds. To my shame, I resisted wearing a proper raincoat for years because it was bright and garish (and didn’t look nice in photos – I know – an awful reason!) I’ve since realised that walking in the rain is one of the best things about autumn wandering. Strangely, when hair sticks to your forehead and the smell of petrichor gets kicked up from the earth, it feels so unbelievably calming.

Leave Your Walking Boots in the Car

Of course, if they’re still soggy from your last jaunt, you may want to dry them out first! Finding that the sun breaks beautifully on your drive home from work in late September, and remembering that you’ve got your boots with you, could be the thing that tips your driving wheel into the direction of the moors before you head home to make dinner.

Make an Autumnal Picnic

There are so many recipes that come into play when September and October come around. Butternut squash, pecans, sage, sausages, pastry, pie, apple… Think of what you’d most like to eat for lunch or dinner and find a way to adapt it into picnic food. This could just mean going ahead and making dinner as normal to wrap up in foil and eat out in the open; an impatient dog sat at your feet glancing from person to person in the hopes of catching some crumbs. Butternut squash risotto could become arancini balls that easily travel in a hiking bag!

Take a Camera Out

It’s so easy to look back on a year and see one, clear image that symbolises each season. A snow drift against a dry-stone wall for winter; cherry blossom in bloom for spring; parched grass swaying in the breeze for summer… But there are so many tiny changes taking place every day – even if the warmth tricks you into thinking that summer is lasting longer than usual. You’ll see it in hazelnuts, acorns and eventually conkers that drop onto the path. Toadstools might have appeared overnight on the lawn – in a fairy circle if you’re lucky. Heather bursts into bloom like fireworks, amethyst coloured and undulating across heaths and dunes.

When you have a low week and want to live in a blanket nest, or when life gets busy and boisterous, it’s strange that we often cut out the things that do us the most good. That can look different for so many different people, but if your soul sings in line with a countryside that isn’t immediately on your doorstep, you sometimes have to meet it halfway. That being said, the transition into autumn can see nature coming to you instead: scuttling spiders with voluptuous bellies may crawl under the door to say hello. You never know, it could just be mother nature beckoning you to join her outdoors!

By Abigail Mann

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Last week, a question in the Creative Countryside Community piqued my interest, not solely as a stimulating inquiry in its own right, but because it was a question my brother had posed in our siblings’ WhatsApp group only hours before:

‘Do you acknowledge the start of autumn on September 1st (meteorological) or the autumn equinox (astronomical date (21st / 22nd))?’

As I started to think through my own answer and reasons, the thought process inevitably turned to a love letter to September, and everything contained within this beautiful month of exhale, transition and metamorphosis.

It’s hard to pin any of the seasons down to a single day, to herald a definitive ‘arrival’, but for me, autumn is especially hard to do so.  I’ve experienced August days full to the brim with lashing rain, thick jumpers and cosy comfort food indoors.  Conversely, I’ve viewed the embers of September days attired in shorts and t-shirt, from the tops of Derbyshire moorland or Sussex Downland, with a day’s worth of hot sun glowing in the pinkness of sunburned skin.

For me, autumn is a season that ebbs slowly in from the very edges of nature itself: it bleeds; it seeps slowly.  September is simultaneously late summer and early autumn.  These seasons rub shoulders confidently together – a natural friction, yet an unspoken harmony.  It’s a month of ratios, rather than a definitive start and ending.  And it’s that unpredictable and heady mix of magic that makes September so entrancing.

September is a month in which we’re suddenly jolted back into a state of alertness.  For too long, we’ve been drunk upon the overflowing cup of summer: the long hot days, warm nights, and seemingly ever-present light.  Now it’s the quickening dusk, almost tidal in its encroachment; the fleeting beauty of dying leaves that pulse all manner of yellows: just some of the markers that sharpen the senses.  

The wilful abandon of taking summer for granted is ended with an enforced observance of sobriety: our eyes do the harvesting, as we eagerly stockpile the mental stores to satiate our wistful longings in the barren depths of winter.  Moments are magnified, appreciated; tended.

Harvesting is not limited to the eyes: the garden continues to take away with one hand and give with the other.  I spend a weekend dead-heading, de-potting and re-arranging, packing away a summer’s worth of organic detritus, whilst runner beans send forth new produce, pumpkins continue to swell, and tomatoes redden upon the vine.

I don’t care what your argument: no-one can convince me that late summer’s transition into autumn isn’t one of this country’s most magnificent times of year.  But September is the magical moment in our natural calendar: a month of harmonious tension.

And where our seasons rub up against each other in a beautiful friction, the resultant sparks ignite a vision of truth that’s often hard to comprehend.

Viva September.

My planner, desktop and wall calendar are all now telling me that summer is now all but over, at least from an academic point of view. With just a few days left before the advent of new classes and fresh starts, the thoughts of all teachers around the country are very much tinged with an autumnal hue as the prospect of the new term looms, but the weather outside my study window has decided, for the time being at least, that summer is not quite done yet.

The days retain many of their hours of sunlight and, with them, their heat, and, although I’m not usually a fan of such warm weather, it does offer one big advantage: the blackberries will be ripened nicely now, “cobwebbed and dusty as a Claret/laid down for years in a cellar”, to appropriate a beautifully apt simile from Owen Sheers.

When I was a boy, I recall blackberry season being such a highlight of the year. Unlike the “milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots” with which Seamus Heaney remembered collecting them, I recall hordes of people descending upon the dockland a couple of streets from my mother’s house, filling up supermarket carrier bags, plastic ice-cream tubs and even coat pockets with their bounty.

Often, a number of generations of same families would turn up together, from adults right down to toddling grandchildren, chatting about goings-on within their families, births, deaths and a whole array of other gossip as juicy as the fruit they were gathering. And of course, the same families would turn up year after year, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, picking and talking, picking and talking long into the summer evenings.

Of course, time and age have plucked their share, as have the consumerist leanings of modern society, gradually widening the gaps between those sets of shoulders until now, barely anyone turns up to pick the blackberries aside from the birds, and the majority of the fruit spoils and wastes for another year.

I am one of those faces that no longer harvests those fruits, mainly because I live a couple of miles further inland and now have my own blackberry-picking spot. Way up, on the high path of the hills behind my home, where few people ever bother to venture, a thick stand of blackberry bushes offers me more fruit than I could ever need , and every year I spend a little time gathering it for my fruit salads and occasional baking, though whenever I’ve been picking, I always feel that I come back home having found much more than a simple tubful of berries.

A habit worth forming is a habit worth passing on to your children, and so I began taking my daughter up to the slopes for these forays. She had her own little tub, a little pair of gardening gloves to protect her hands from thorns, and so she too became part of the late-summer ritual, looking forward to the event that it had become, developing that same annual “lust for picking” shared by countless millions through the years.

Time has now stolen this from me too. It was only a matter of time I suppose: having started secondary school last September, Elle is now far more interested in new friends and her new phone than in picking up old habits with her old man.

So here I am, climbing the slope alone this year, carrying only my tub and a tatty old pair of gardening gloves that I’ve been meaning to replace for more years than I can remember. Still, I reckon she’ll show a little more interest later when those familiar smells of blackberry and apple crumble start wafting from the oven and swilling around the house like the last dregs of summer’s fine wine.