The change in seasons came suddenly and shockingly last weekend. With the start of a new term came wind and rain, gloomy evenings and grey mornings; I wasn't ready for it. I spent the week hunkering down, ignoring the rain hammering on the skylights and creeping down the windows, preferring to work late, rush home and pull the curtains shut and cuddle up on the sofa. This weekend offered me the perfect remedy. The rain eased off, I opened the doors to the garden. I swept, mopped, scrubbed and freshened my own little house before heading to my parents' house, my family home. At home, the harvest continues. We ate grapes from the vine, apples from the orchard and this morning feasted on homemade oatcakes and home laid eggs.
The cat kept close watch over the chickens as my dad cleared the orchard, and the sun shone softly on the warm stone walls.
Crabapples are falling, logs have been gathered and the flutter of anticipation of cosy evenings is beginning to sustain us all after the busy summer months.
I grew up in a special place. A National Trust estate which, in its post-feudal incarnation, is home to earth-loving farmers, organic growers and creative types. And it's a village that knows how to have a party. This particular party was to celebrate the end of the annual local food festival, and it did not disappoint.
The village is beautiful and unpretentiously wholesome. It is a good place to have grown up, and a good place to return to. There is inevitably a conversation every time I go home in which someone asks, 'do you think you'll end up coming back?' My answer is generally, 'maybe' but whether I do or not, it is a place that runs through my veins, sustaining me and reminding me of the things that I love.
