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Showing posts from October, 2016

time forgotten ...

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Monday
A cool, dry day - no sunshine to speak of. In the afternoon I did a little exploring.  I went on a jaunt to photograph Foxon's Lodge, the abandoned farmhouse, a five minute walk down the road.
The farmhouse lies at the bottom of a valley; the track is steep and lined with ancient apple trees that lean to the south - weathered by the prevailing north wind.


I have found a little history of the place.
Alfred Foxon and his wife Harriet moved here in the 1920's and farmed the land around what was then called Peashill Farm.  Alfred was one of thirteen children and Harriet bore him four girls and four boys.  One of the sons, Reg, and his brother Alf, took over the farm after the second World War and ran it until the 1970's when it was sold.  The land is still used but the farmhouse remains empty and has steadily become derelict.


It is always sad to see, that, which was once a home, fall in to disrepair; the window glass all gone and the roof falling in; the farmyard overgr…

golden days ...

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Saturday
After a dull start it turned into a beautiful day.  Worked in the veg garden clearing the beds; weeding the paths and generally tidying up.  At about 4 p.m. the sun goes in and I bring the washing in off the line; still a little damp; the sky starts to cloud over.  I watch the day come to an end ; the birds leave the feeders to find a roost for the night; the garden becomes silent.


Sunday
Oh what a difference a day makes on this sceptred isle of ours.  Yesterday, doors and windows flung open to a warm autumn day - today, the sky is gloomy and gunmetal grey; the rain pours down in an unending torrent; splashing in bullet-like drops against the window sills, sounding of machine gun fire; fast and repetitive.  Not a bird to be seen in the sky or garden; they are sensibly waiting for the rain to stop; sheltering in the still-leafy trees.  Then an hour or so later the clouds disappear; the sun shone and everything was golden.


Monday
A bright, sunny, chilly, windy morning.  Two magpi…

the rise of the apple and the fall of the oak ...

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Sunday
Early morning.  We drove down to the lake for a stroll in the autumn sunshine; the air was chilled in the shadows but the sun was bright.  The water level was still very low; we have had hardly any rain for weeks.  On the spit of land a gaggle of Canada geese preening and resting.  The water still and calm.

 We walked further along the lane, and there just around the bend, my favourite oak tree; a lopsided old thing with winky-wonky branches.  But all was not well.  The trunk had split and there was a gut-wrenching open wound.
 
I loved that old tree and always take a photograph of it when we are down there; a kind of tradition.




Now, half the tree lying on the ground - only fit for firewood - such a shame - I felt really sad.


Monday
Spent the morning pruning the Amelanchier which had outgrown its space.  My neighbour came round with foxglove self-seeders which I planted beneath it now that there is some room.  I have finally come to the end of the garden restoration project -…

My Week in a Nutshell ...

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The hazy, cloudless skies of Indian Summer.
Leaves scurrying down the street before the wind.
The cold shiver from an arctic blast.
Indian Summer.
The last warmth of the sun.
Chilly mornings and glorious warm afternoons.
The touch of frost on grass and window pane.
The smell of burning leaves.
Keith C. Heidorn


Sunday
A beautiful clear, rainwashed morning.  The garden smells fresh and earthy.  A robin is singing and sparrows fly on and off the feeders.  A slight breeze is gently moving the leaves which glisten with drops of rain; a gull glides overhead shining silver as the sunlight flickers off its wings.  Shadows move across the fields; some bare and brown after ploughing; some green with clumpy grass; others bleached almost white.  A perfect day to work outside;  can one be addicted to the outdoors?

My Ode to Autumn

Beneath a tawny canopy
October flicks her skirts of golden hue.
Leaves of amber twist and turn
and touch the ground.
Silently.
Wisps of smoke
drift skyward
And purple berri…