How green is my garden. Gone the sandy tones of midsummer. To be replaced by a vibrant almost violent lushness. It calls for a scythe like a Van Gogh painting or like Morten our nearest neighbour favours. Instead, I sort the electric strimmer. I need to trim around the currant bushes, the pears, the apple tree. Henri will set the mower to its highest setting.
It will take at least two trims. Most of the meadow hasn’t been cut since April. It is alive now with pink and white yarrow, yellow lady’s bedstraw, splashes of scattered scarlet poppy.
The greening rain is relentless, so we leave off cutting for the first few days. The long grass is flattened. The last rugosa is a shocking pink, the colour of statement lipstick. Its fat rose hips are scarlet.
We pick pears off the trees. They are just-so soft and fragrant, our best crop yet.
The revelation is the apple. Decked with reddening fruit like Christmas decorations. Luckily, Dylan and his sister are visiting after we leave. We hope they enjoy them.
We painted the decking last time we were here. Now splattered with black pools of autumn rain.
Morten is in search of ceps, or Karl Johan as they call them here. Henri spreads toast with her blackcurrant jam from the bushes. I eye the green hazelnuts and wonder whether the red squirrels will leave us any.
The large bird cherry tree is just starting to shed its leaves. A darker Danish autumn is undeniable now. We cherish the meals eaten outside. There may not be too many more.
We will return in a few weeks. Gently cut back some of the undergrowth. Light fires from last winter’s wood. Meanwhile, the sun is rising as I write. Time to make English tea. Go for an early morning walk. Perhaps to see deer or hares. To pick more Danish apples.
Allan Jenkins’s Plot 29 (4th Estate, £9.99) is out now. Order it for £8.49 from guardianbookshop.com
