When the sun shines on the grapes and through the leaves I almost warm to autumn. Some of our grapes are sweet, most are sour. You can’t tell be looking, so we are pulling a lot of faces.
Maybe I’ll stick to photographing them for a few days more. Continue reading
It’s not my favourite season. There’s a nip in the air once the sun goes down, and it goes down earlier and earlier. First thing in the morning it was cool enough for me to need my windproof smock on the bike. My fingers told me I should be needing full finger gloves in a month or so.
But once the sun has got going the days are beautiful.
The skies are blue.
I went to buy tomatoes and onions today.
My eyes grew larger than my stomach, and I came home with gorgeous English damsons, cucumbers, small and so so sweet, raspberries from Kent that are a taste of heaven, Kentish cobs (most already eaten and the shells in the compost) with their green, singular tang, corns on the cob, ready to boil or roast, beetroots with slender pink stems and crimson veined leaves. From further afield, I bought pomegranates, oranges, figs. I’d already got grapes from the garden.
I am dizzy with the prospect of eating all this bounty. My head spins with recipes, planned meals and gastronomic pleasure.
In a similar situation, Keats wrote a poem.
We can’t all be highminded.
So while I chomp, I’ll recite this in my head.
Shaded under the
changing leaves the black grapes hang