Autumn Page 5
On the autumn equinox, which falls around 23 September, day and night are the same length all over the globe, when the sun shines directly on the equator. ‘Spring’ tides, which take place twice a month, a few days after new and full moons, bring the highest and lowest water marks of the month. The sun, moon and earth are lined up, combining their gravitational pull on the oceans. The weeks around the equinoxes bring the biggest tidal ranges of the year for similar reasons. When the equinox coincides with spring tides, you get the largest tidal range of all. It is complex: another tidal cycle works itself out over 18.6 years. The distance of the moon, wind direction and air pressure also contribute.
It’s at the equinox spring tides, at the very lowest waters, that people in Orkney are able to go out and hunt for spoots, the local name for razor clams, which live under the sand at the farthest reach of the beach. When I was a teenager, we picked winkles from the shore at low tide, scrambling on the slippy rocks and pools in the intertidal zone, and sold them by weight. On Radio Scotland, I heard a woman on the Isle of Harris say, ‘If you want to do seaweed foraging, you’ve got to start consulting the moon.’
At the highest waters, the sea swells in the bays that edge Orkney. If spring tides are combined with an incoming wind, they can cause damage, erosion and flooding. In autumn 2013, ancient drystone walls on the island of North Ronaldsay, built to keep seaweed-eating sheep on the beach, tumbled down in such conditions.
I’ve only recently found out that these rhythms are in my family, my grandma telling me about how her father, a ship’s supplier, had to go to work at high tide, shifts constantly changing. Mum has recently been learning about the tidal races and currents around Orkney with her kayak club. These cycles still affect people. Causeways to islands, the Churchill Barriers, are closed at certain high tides. I once unwittingly drove over the barriers at just the wrong time – high tide in an easterly wind – and my car was hit by a wave that breached the sea wall. I flicked on the windscreen wipers, held tightly to the wheel and drove on.
I’d long heard that as well as the biggest tides, the autumn equinox brings the strongest winds in Orkney. However, some say equinoctial gales are mostly anecdotal. Indeed, there is no straightforward mechanism that would relate the alignment of the planets to the areas of pressure that create wind. Reverend Charles Clouston, who began weather recording in Orkney in the nineteenth century, discovered that we don’t actually get the strongest gales at the equinox but the idea still holds. An enquiry to my Orcadian friends on Facebook caused a debate. Someone said that while we do get so-called equinoctial gales reliably in September and October, the windiest months are January and February. Another person maintained that despite science telling us it’s all an old mariners’ myth, with the change from Julian to Gregorian calendar meaning we’re all out of kilter, she still thinks it is more windy around autumn equinox – and the spring one. She puts it down to the Norse god Njord bestirring himself.
The direction of the prevailing wind in Orkney, which may seem simple, also causes debate. It seems to depend on if you factor in strength and where you are standing. Some maintain the north wind is the most common. My dad, who farms on the west coast, reckons it is the westerlies. I’m told confidently that our extremes of wind are usually from the SW–NW quadrant. An environmental report from Orkney Islands Council says: ‘The most characteristic feature of the Orkney climate is the frequency of strong winds and the prevailing winds are from between west and south-east for 60% of the year. Winds greater than 8 m s–1 occur for over 30% of the year and gales occur on average for 29 days per year.’ I just know that when I’m away from Orkney and hear the wind outside my bedroom window, it makes me homesick.
It’s pleasing to consider and observe celestial dynamics and see how the alignment of the earth, moon and sun can affect my plans: where to swim, when to forage on the seashore. I find it irresistible to tie these extremes of ocean and weather to my own life and moods. Henry David Thoreau wrote: ‘The poet must be constantly watching his moods, as the astronomer watches the aspects of the heavens . . . A meteorological journal of the mind. You shall observe what occurs in your latitude, me mine.’ An equinox sounds stable but really is an instant where the balance tips, and the nights become longer than days. It is the counterweight to the solstices.
Living in the city, the high winds and waters are something I experience as much digitally as physically. My electronic device links me to home and on the equinox I’m searching for a still point, something to hang on to in the hugeness of the internet, in the gales and the ever ebbing and flowing ocean.
Amy Liptrot, 2016
Autumn is an adventure, a season of transformation, and a time to prepare for the long winter ahead. It is a thousand leaves falling to the ground and nourishing the soil beneath; it is heavy rainfalls that catch you off guard and drive you to shelter; it is the refreshing winds that sweep the haze of summer away; it is the calm before the storm. More than that, though, autumn is a celebration of senses, of new experiences for your eyes, ears, tongue, skin and nose; it rouses your consciousness after the calming effects of summer. Autumn isn’t the season of decay or death, but one of wealth and renewal. It is the changing landscape, the subtle anticipation of winter. Autumn is to be enjoyed.
Autumn is bold bursts of colour that leap from every corner of the landscape; it is golden yellow, fiery red, bright orange, and rich chocolate brown, and a faded green that reminds us of summer. It is an endless rolling landscape preparing itself for winter, the twinkling dew that clings to the cold grass and delicate spider webs, thick misty mornings and foggy evenings, and weak, watery sunlight that penetrates the skeletal trees. Autumn is a dappled night sky peppered with stars and clouds; it is a twinkle of sunlight captured in this morning’s rainfall, or a day that ends too soon. Now is the time for the beauty of harvest; for all of the colours that burst from the hedgerows and trees. Autumn is blackberries, rosehips, elderberries, holly, rowanberries, conkers, acorns, sloe berries, pine and alder cones, hawthorns, and ivy; the joy of collecting such bountiful treasures. It is thick, sticky mud and the stains on your boots, the glow of a candle within a deep orange pumpkin, and the flurry of birds that come to feed in your garden. Stand bathed in the glow of a bonfire, and watch fireworks dance across a deep purple sky.
Autumn is the scent of wet pavements, and the perfume of damp leaves as they lie trodden into the ground. It is the season of crackling bonfires, fireworks, and harvest; the aroma of a hundred fireworks’ smoky trails, disturbed embers, and intoxicating bouquets from recently ploughed fields. Autumn is the scent of a farmhouse kitchen; of fresh bread, newly baked plum pie, roasted chestnuts, and the sweet cologne of an over-flowing fruit bowl. It is the earthy tones of a recently carved pumpkin, the sweet tang of stewing apples, and the inviting odours of Christmas preparation. Autumn brings the fragrant rain; heavy, fat drops that cleanse everything that they touch. It is the season of renewal, when every breath invokes nature.
Autumn is the crunch of leaves as they scatter underfoot; it’s the rustles, rattles, and whispers of a woodland walk, and the wind whipping through bare branches and heaped foliage. It is the whistle of fireworks, and the crackle and pop as they burst into life; it’s the sputter and roar of a bonfire, a warning to keep your distance. Autumn is the season of squeals and giggles, and of laughter from painted faces.
Listen: silence hides a multitude of creatures. Autumn is the snuffle of hedgehogs as they creep through the grass, the twitter of birds as they come home to roost, the honk of geese as they seek warmer climes. It’s nature’s orchestra performing at its very best; every inch of the landscape strives to be heard. Autumn is the rain as it plops on the ground, drips into big metal buckets and soaks into the earth. It’s the cacophony of rainfall on a tin shed roof, the patter of streams as they form on the ground, and the gush of a woodland waterfall. Autumn is a playground filling with conkers that clash together; it’s leaf piles that have been disturbed by wellington-clad
feet, the squelch of mud, and the trudging of feet on wet ground. It is the ooze of wet leaves between your fingers; of mud between your toes. It’s the chill of the rain as it dampens your skin, the cold, crisp air, and the roughness of the wind as it whips your cheeks. Step outside and embrace the chill in the air; autumn is the soft comfort of a warm woolly hat, the feel of a scarf as it slides around your neck, and the heat from a new pair of gloves. Now is the time for droplets of dew to form in the thick grass; ripple your fingers through the moist stems, and catch the beads as they drip and fall. Autumn is the heat of a roaring bonfire, the scold of stray ash, and the smothering curtain of smoke that envelops you; it’s the fizz of sparklers clenched in cold fists; the warmth of your breath as it escapes your lips. Autumn is damp socks after a long walk, crusts of mud that crack and crumble, and splashes that rain down after a satisfying puddle jump. It’s the roughness of logs as you arrange a home for a hibernating hedgehog, the prickle of a conker not yet out of its casing, the coarse edges of pine and alder cones collected by children. Autumn is a time for textured treasure; run your fingers through its landscape.
Louise Baker, 2016
The Autumnal Season sets in about Michaelmas with cooler air, often cold nights, but for the most part fine weather; as it advances, and the temperature continues to decline, it frequently produces showers and wet weather, accompanied with high gales of wind which prevail most during the night, and are often succeeded by dead calms in the day time. Fogs begin to become denser and to last all day, overspreading the meadows to great extent in low and flat situations, and not being overcome even by the sun’s midday rays; Phoebus cannot say of himself as he did in Ovid’s time
‘Qui modo pestifero tot jugera ventre prementem, Stravimus innumeris tumidum Pythona sagittis.’
About Allhallowtide in the neighbourhood of London and of Amsterdam the faint beams of the sun are hardly seen for two hours in twenty four, and this for many days together. Occasionally fogs happen at every period of the autumn and winter, but this is the season of their prevalence.
The retreat of the Swallows and Martlets constitutes one of the most remarkable features in the history of this period. Swallows assemble early in September, and so continue to appear in vast quantities, roosting on the tops of houses and lofty buildings; their migration begins with the Autumnal Season, and the greatest part of the species migrate between new and old Michaelmas day; Martlets retire a few days later; straggling Swallows are seen about till the middle of October, and Martlets sometimes till the end of that month. Many birds now arrive in flocks; wild Geese and Ducks perform partial migrations, and Woodcocks and Snipes arrive. The flowering of the Saffrons, the autumnal Crocus, the purple and the white varieties of the Colchicum in our gardens, Michaelmas Daisies, and other late Asters, are indications of the approach of this season. Fungi now become very abundant in moist places.
The leaves during the Autumnal Season turn yellow, red, or brown, and at length falling, by degrees cover the ground with thick carpeting. The Beech, the Oak, and few deciduous trees keep their old dead leaves till spring.
A colder air, wet fogs, or alternations of wind and fine weather, close this period at the end of November.
Thomas Furly Forster, The Pocket Encyclopaedia of Natural Phenomena, published 1827
It is the month of ripeness – a golden, crimson and russet month. Here in Kent the orchards offer themselves to stage the drama of the year. Throughout the summer, when the fields around were alive with the sounds of haymaking and harvest, these miles of trees grew in silence, while the pale green of the swelling apples hid beneath the leaves. Since their pink and white foaming in May, no one has remarked them, except perhaps the mower as he cut the grass from around their feet, or the farmer as he has watched the apples setting. But now all that is changed. These calm golden days have brought ladders and shouting, the creaking of wheels and the thud of falling apples.
The gatherers come early, when the dew on the heavy grass and nettles wets their legs and bediamonds the leaves, and there is a mysterious gloom and depth of shadow along the aisles of trees.
A glow burns through the countryside at the thought of the apple gathering. ‘They have started picking,’ say the old people to each other down in the village. Something stirs in their blood, a memory of gatherings when the mistletoe was sacred, and prayer gave motion to the sun, and stones were still alive. So, too, do their hands and minds leap mountains and centuries, linking in pagan continuity with gods, grape-stained in their Mediterranean vineyards. It is one of the pinnacles in the rhythm of their year.
The army of ladders attacks the trees. On all sides, at all angles, are they reared, placed against unresisting branches and in the clefts of gnarled trunks – a veritable fugue in ladders. The old men with their baskets on a hook start picking the lower apples within reach of the safety of the ground; rheumaticky limbs are not so fond of climbing. But the youth leap the ladders, and systematically the pillage begins. The trees shake and tremble, the figures run up and down, emptying picking aprons, exchanging full for empty baskets; and the branches leap upwards, relieved of their weight of fruit.
And now the sun is high and each tree courteously spreads a circular dark green carpet of shade beneath itself. They stretch, these circles of shadows, back into the shapelessness of distance, narrowing into ellipses as they go.
At midday, as the sun beats down upon the browned arms of the pickers, the men step with relief into the shade. It is dinner time. Bottles of cold tea and beer are produced, and chunks of cheese and bread; and leaning against the trunks of the trees they sit, or sprawling in the shadow, they eat and talk. Old Tom Latimer has picked ‘this seventy year’. He mumbles with his toothless jaw, comparing this tree with that, this year’s yield with the one of thirty years back. He is himself like one of his own apples; red lacquer stains each cheek, wizened as an apple forgotten in the loft. As a shepherd knows each sheep in his flock, so is the intimate shape of each apple tree stamped upon Tom’s mind. He shakes his head at the young men lazing, and is off up the ladders again.
So throughout the hot afternoon they pick, moving their ladders and baskets over the board of the orchard like counters in a game. And as the pickers move, they are followed by the clumps of men who sort the apples. Instinctively, mechanically, they select them, by weight and soundness, dealing them out into the right bushel baskets. Following the group of baskets, in their turn come the carts. There is a swishing sound as they brush the trees in passing. The horse tosses his head into the lower leaves of the tree, against the attacking flies. And so the fruit of the trees is taken away, to be covered up and labelled and put into a railway siding, for grey-faced people in the cities who never saw an apple shine upon the top-most bough against the blue of the September sky.
But what is that shouting away over the fields? What is that music of mouth organ and concertina? Beyond the trees and past the next slope ends another harvesting and the ravaged Kentish hop fields are lying back to rest. While still the apple trees bent beneath their fruit, these hop fields were half stripped. Poles were torn up, wreathed with the tendrilled hop plants, and laid against the canvas tally baskets, till they looked like the oars of an ancient galley. Here, for the picking, gather the outpourings of the London slums, in all their flimsy finery and their fear of rain, cumbered with babies and tin tea kettles. The fields must have shivered with the clamour. Girl shouted to girl across the avenues of hop poles; old woman quarrelled with old woman, till the feathers in their bonnets nodded drunkenly; sun-cheated children chased each other among the tally baskets; tired, white-faced men sighed from out their contentment as they counted the diminishing days before they should be sent back to the heaving heat of the London pavements. And over it all was the beauty of the hop plants, like a blessing.
But with cheers and shouting, concertinas and song, the last lorry load of pickers has left the hop fields, and the naked hop poles stand silent.
Over the country there is pea
ce. The resting fields have given up their yield. Oast houses and rickyards and barns are full. In the cottage gardens the fruit has been picked, apple and pear, quince and plum. Go down the village street on a late September afternoon and the warm burnt smell of jam-making oozes out of open cottage doors. Soon the last apple will have been picked and the orchards will be silent again.
Sunday evening in the village church: the days are drawing in and the smelly gas lamps flicker unevenly with the greenish yellow light. It is Harvest Festival and the church is full. Farmer Stevens peeps behind him to look with a sense of possession at his sheaves of wheat around the font. Old Mrs Yeo is wondering where her orange dahlias have been put, and knows that the pink ones in the place of honour on the pulpit are not as good as hers. Rows of large apples line the chancel, red and yellow and green. The lectern is almost hidden in a tangle of oats. Obscurely at the back sits a ploughboy. He is shy and fidgets with his bow under the unaccustomed constriction of his Sunday collar. He has lost his way in the Service, for he never comes to church. But every year the Harvest Festival pulls him. He listens to the vicar preaching; he sees the squire and his lady in the front pew, and all the gentry smiling to each other. He feels lonely and untidy. Suddenly a flame of understanding consumes him. He is surrounded by white light and God’s hand is upon him. This is his service. It is about him that the vicar is preaching. He no longer fears the squire and his lady and all the gentry in the church. Those oats are his, and the wheat round the font. Who but he knew the fields before the plough had turned them? Was it not he who rose in the dark of winter mornings and with chilblained hands and numb feet fed the horses? Who else but he had withstood the March gales as he followed the plough? And now it is Harvest Festival. He strains forward to look at the apples, the oats and the wheat.