Flights cancelled, trains, too, in our bid to beat Storm Babet to the summerhouse for an urgent family thing. We drive through the dark. The black roads strewn with branches. Trees dancing wildly in the headlights.
By the morning it’s over. Blue skies. Small clouds. No wind. Though the sea has receded 20ft.
The leaves are only now starting to turn. The meadow grass is lush and verdant. Green after summer’s burned-back brown. The soil’s softened. Badgers and the moles are back.
The cosmos is still flowering, the nasturtiums snaking, the herb box calendula flashes brilliant orange. I save the seed.
The last apples lie on the ground. Some we leave for wildlife. A few we bag up for home.
The grass under the oaks is carpeted in acorns. Many hundreds, maybe thousands. The same with the oaks by the beach. A sign of distress, I think, after the brutal drought. Small planes monitoring summer watering.
The roses, too, are covered in more hips than I’ve ever seen here. Naked stems of thorns and extravagant splashes of crimson-red.
Lizzie, our neighbour and Henri’s oldest friend, has made us jam from foraged fruit, beach rugosa and a blackberry. Perfect for breakfast with fresh bakery rolls.
The trees are turning quickly now, more amber by the day. Splashes of yellow turning to rust. But the big drop hasn’t happened yet.
The rowan dance, the firs sway. The larch towers. Home to sightseeing birds. We will be back there while you are reading this. For a quiet ceremony to bid a loved one goodbye.
The birch barks will unfurl. The oaks will have dumped their leaves. We will gather our thoughts and the remains of summer. We’ll barrow it all away to compost. Thoughts and food for another year.
Allan Jenkins’s Plot 29 (4th Estate, £9.99) is out now. Order it for £8.49 from guardianbookshop.com
