Season of mists...

One of my favourite poems by a classical poet, Keats, and since referring to the second of the seasons I particularly like, the first being spring, a suitable title for a blog on the joys of autumn, or as the American flavour of English would have it - fall. (Even though I am a tad against things American, so many of them not having contributed anything at all to civilisation's forward march, there are many features of American life, and American English that I admire, and that I would prefer to see used in British English as well. Fall is one such word, since it better, in my opinion, describes the most vivid expression of fall - the leaves falling.)

We're now in the middle of the fall season in Middle Europe, the leaves all turned in colour, the half of them fallen, the cycle of life and death clearly striding onwards. This is the time of year when I start putting out hedgehog feed, and bird feed, and get around to cleaning up the garden, and getting ready for the 'short death' that is winter. The coal tits and robins, red-tails and even an occasional black European squirrel, have all visited the feeding spots and are sounding out the possibilities of making this their breakfast diner of choice. Evenings I put out the leftover cat food, since hedgehogs and stoats will take carrion readily, and there are one or two feline strays happy to snap a bite or two.

Two of the outside walls of the house have been covered in wood; cut, split and stacked up six feet high (or about two meters, if you wax metrically), to make sure I don't get cold until spring; a mix of pine and beech, with a smattering of oak and fir, if my nose didn't fool me; bought off a local farmer in the normal middle european style - a meter long and split, the cutting-down to oven size left to the buyer, who thereby saves a few Euros on the costs. So I spent a few evenings after work getting sweated up, feeling good about the sheer physical feel of it all, the smell of the wood, the high-pitched whine of the saw, the taste of the beer straight from the neck of the bottle. The one thing missing would have been a cigarette, but I gave them up about half a year ago now, and don't really intend starting again.

The next steps are the garden work - raking up the leaves, and spreading them as anti-frost protection on the flowerbeds, weighed down with matting. I've to cut back some shrubs, and see about putting down some poison in the garden shed - the mice ate every single organic material they could fine the last two winters, and their urine transmits some very nasty diseases indeed, so sorry, lads, it's stay out or get put down, I'm afraid. The cheap Chinese greenhouse (a plastic sheeting-covered wire frame) turned out to be a no-go - the plastic sheeting hasn't held even a year, and is decomposing, leaving just the supporting net structure, and a very wet and cold greenhouse - I'll probably throw the whole thing away next year and invest in something more stable.

The crop of apples from my one tree has been harvested, the spoiled and dodgy bits excised, and the rest turned into apple jelly, about ten jars of it, all told. Made yesterday, and tried out this morning on toast - splendid. I've flavoured some of the jars with cinnamon, or ginger, or cloves, and will see how they turn out.

Sitting evenings in front of the log-fired Swedish oven, a glass of single-malt and a good book at hand, listening to the spitting of the logs and some cool jazz - how on earth might one not like this time of year?

Sláinte