Autumn Page 8

  One person’s lifespan is a blink of an eye to the river, a leaf’s existence even less so. My own perceptions of time may be faster than the sessile oak or the 100-year-old pearl mussel, slower than the caddisfly or fleet sand martin. Each species experiences the river uniquely. Ebb or flow, whirlpool or riffle, all senses engaged, memories in the making. The river is different yet the same.

  Long into the future, perhaps the winds may turn, continents will divide again, and the river’s entire length may disappear, devoured by geological action and climates. There may be traces of its ancient forms and life in the rock, and these may, in turn, erode to dust and silt the rivers a billion years from now. And so the story continues, beyond a simple lotic flow of water, of the autumnal leaf and the philosopher’s river; the beginning of a chain, the nurturing of the unseen and a myriad of woven fabrics of life, of place and of time.

  Ginny Battson, 2016

  Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love – that makes life and nature harmonise. The birds are consulting about their migrations, the trees are putting on the hectic or the pallid hues of decay, and begin to strew the ground, that one’s very footsteps may not disturb the repose of earth and air, while they give us a scent that is a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit. Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.

  George Eliot, letter to Maria Lewis, Oct. 1, 1841

  The Salvation Army brass band marched down St Michael’s Road past Evans’ chip shop, pom-pommed round the corner and up the little bit of hill to Elmsleigh Road and on down over the railway crossing to the seafront. The houses were very still and the streets empty but Mam’s chatter ruffled the sabbath hush. Clennon Valley smelt of woodsmoke and tired trees. A flock of longtailed tits exploded from the hedgerow thorns and Mam and I crept along the brow of the sheep pasture gathering the mushrooms and dropping them into the basket. She wore old wellingtons and a green headscarf. The October sun lit the blond tresses stirring on her forehead; and to me she was the loveliest creature God had ever made. Golden brown countryside rolled around us. A buzzard skirled; a green woodpecker undulated away like a little kite being pulled behind a running child; rooks cawed from the stubble.

  ‘That’s pretty,’ Mam said, and I followed her gaze.

  Blue mist filled the lap of the valley and from it rose a heron, climbing through the sunshine and swinging west towards the Dart.

  ‘I love autumn,’ she continued.

  Under the hedge a crow jauntily walked up the carcass of a sheep to get at the eyes.

  ‘I like crows,’ I said, knowing the remark would be unpopular.

  ‘Crows peck out lambs’ eyes, Bri.’

  ‘Why did God make ’em then, Mam?’

  ‘Maybe he don’t care about animals. There’s lots of things he don’t care about – like the little children who got killed when that German plane hit the church in Torquay.’

  ‘I shot a bluetit with my catapault last Wednesday.’

  ‘Why? Bluetits are lovely little birds.’

  ‘I gave it to Tacker Willocks’ ferret.’

  ‘You mustn’t kill songbirds, Bri. We used to feed our ferrets on sparrows in feather and chickens’ heads. Never bluetits. Sparrows eat grain and there’s lots of them.’

  ‘Can I have an air pistol, Mam?’

  ‘No you bloody can’t. You’re enough trouble as it is.’

  ‘I’ll run away from home.’

  She grinned and said, ‘Good.’

  After the roast dinner which we ate around one o’clock Mam and Dad took me for a long walk. We went up Fisher Street, down Winner Street which was one of Paignton’s oldest thoroughfares, climbed Colley End Road to Kings Ash and wandered out into the farmland. The lanes were deep, narrow and muddy. Buff- and brown-speckled oak leaves rustled down to swell the mush of yellow hazel and elm leaves in the red gruel. But we did not miss many of the filberts and at Blagdon Dad filled his pockets with walnuts.

  The country road ran crookedly from Barton Pines to Totnes, passing high above the coombes and spinneys before dropping into the ancient hamlet of Berry Pomeroy. The vast panorama of South, West and Mid-Devon opened before us – a far-off glimpse of Dartmoor straight ahead and, to the left, hill upon rounded hill racing through the distant haze of the South Hams. One day I promised myself I’d walk to those dim horizons and discover what it was that saddened and excited me.

  Sometimes Dad carried me on his shoulders whistling tunes like ‘Roll out the Barrel’ and ‘Colonel Bogey’, or singing snippets of gibberish:

  ‘Articabs and choakajiz, ten barb roobi-a-stick’ (Artichokes and cabbages, rhubarb ten bob a stick).

  Then we headed for home up the main Totnes Road into dimpsey. From the hilltop we caught a glimpse of the sea and Berry Head lighthouse winking from the grey darkfall. And the churchbells rang out right across Devon, village and town taking up the music so that it filled every corner of Sunday.

  Under the oxblood-coloured plough of Blagdon Hill the church of Collaton St Mary stood among tall trees, its windows glowing palely golden. Opposite the churchyard was a small meadow where the brook ran against the hedge. We stopped by the five-barred gate to feed the horses and Dad called to them, his voice thick with the affection that always flavoured his chats with animals. O the lovely Devon burr softening the Rs and the words turning on his tongue like earth behind the plough – heavy and rich.

  The horses were suddenly there in the dimpsey, breathing the scent of crushed grass. Six dark shapes nuzzled each other and lifted their heads as if to drink the bell-music. Then they raced away to the shadows of the great, black elms. Those work animals found true liberty at dusk. They gazed from deep, mysterious dreams into fabled places where horses are kings. Turning to walk on I heard them thundering around the field and I heard them again yesterday when I re-read Dylan Thomas’s ‘Fern Hill’.

  Brian Carter, Yesterday’s Harvest, 1982

  The Wild Swans at Coole

  The trees are in their autumn beauty,

  The woodland paths are dry,

  Under the October twilight the water

  Mirrors a still sky;

  Upon the brimming water among the stones

  Are nine-and-fifty swans.

  The nineteenth autumn has come upon me

  Since I first made my count;

  I saw, before I had well finished,

  All suddenly mount

  And scatter wheeling in great broken rings

  Upon their clamorous wings.

  I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,

  And now my heart is sore.

  All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight,

  The first time on this shore,

  The bell-beat of their wings above my head,

  Trod with a lighter tread.

  Unwearied still, lover by lover,

  They paddle in the cold

  Companionable streams or climb the air;

  Their hearts have not grown old;

  Passion or conquest, wander where they will,

  Attend upon them still.

  But now they drift on the still water,

  Mysterious, beautiful;

  Among what rushes will they build,

  By what lake’s edge or pool

  Delight men’s eyes when I awake some day

  To find they have flown away?

  William Butler Yeats, 1917

  I stand among the gnarled old apple trees and feel surrounded by a group of friends. The pruned shapes and the rough lichen-encrusted bark conjure up memories from my childhood in Kent, where orchards abounded and everyone had an apple tree or two in their garden. In my mind, I see clouds of pale pink flowers and rosy red fruits, set against a clear blue sky. I can feel the sun on my shoulders and smell the soft perfume of apples. This kaleidoscope of images is no respecter of order, for the seasons are muddled as they tumble over each other in my memory.


  Today though, it is definitely autumn. There was a chill in the air this morning and dew drops were glistening on the cobwebs in the hedge. The leaves have turned a tired-looking green and some are distinctly yellow. This North Yorkshire orchard, planted by the local gentry in the nineteenth century, has had a varied life. Once tended, pruned and prized, it then fell out of favour and spent many years abandoned, ignored and unkempt. Now, it has a new lease of life with a gardener who is busy restoring these wonderful trees to their former glory. Each tree is an individual, tall and upright, wide and spreading or compact and stocky. There are many old varieties represented here with intriguing names like Bismarck, Keswick Codlin, Newton Wonder, Blenheim Orange and Peasgood’s Nonsuch.

  The rough grass and nettles under my feet have been scythed and the best of the crop harvested. The inaccessible fruits at the top of the trees and the rotten ones on the ground are all that are left. Perhaps originally pigs would have been driven in and left to feast on what they could find. But today we are going to collect the remaining fruit and convert it into apple juice. The beauty of making juice is that we can use scabby, misshapen and bruised fruit so that very little of the crop ever goes to waste.

  We’re making an early start and begin by selecting a tree, picking up the fallen apples and then spreading enormous sheets of plastic under it. We nudge the tree with apple pickers, long telescopic poles with a v-shaped fork on top. The fork holds a branch as we shake, encouraging a shower of apples, leaves, twigs, spiders and earwigs to cascade on to the sheets. On picking up the ends, the apples roll to the middle and we gather them into bags, jettisoning any that are too rotten. We move the plastic to the next tree and begin again.

  Back at the farm we wash the apples. They don’t have to be squeaky clean, but soil, mould and animal droppings must be removed or the juice will be contaminated. We then scrat them. This is a process that turns firm rounded apples into a sloppy pulp. Originally horse power and later steam would have been used to power two large wooden wheels with protruding fingers to rotate and interlock. The apples would have been dropped in and pulverised as they were squashed between the wheels. Today we are using an electric scratter which is like a garden shredder. This machine is very efficient but very noisy. It’s a great sense of relief when it’s switched off for a while and I become aware of the quiet world around me. I can now hear the distant squabbling rooks, the buzzing of insects and the chatter of my companions.

  The apple pulp, or pomace, is a light yellow which quickly oxidises to a brown colour, in the same way that a discarded apple core would. The pulverising releases the characteristic apple perfume, which attracts dozens of wasps that hamper our progress. I realise the tangy smell is linked in my mind to the fear of these insects and their painful stings. I feel a bit edgy as I continue to work, trying to dodge these black and yellow terrors.

  We’re now ready to extract the apple juice and accomplish this by using a press. Today we’re using a barrel press and a rack and cloth press, but the principle is the same for both. The pomace is placed in a cloth which is squeezed more and more tightly by a heavy weight. The cloth bag is held in a slatted barrel in the barrel press, and several bags are stacked up on wooden slats on the rack and cloth press.

  The apple cores, skin and pips are retained by the cloth and the juice is able to flow freely through the pores so we can collect it in clean buckets.

  Everyone wants to try the juice. I savour my cupful. It both looks and tastes like liquid gold. It is the best, purest apple juice I have ever drunk and when I close my eyes I can taste sunshine, fresh air and apple blossom. Each mouthful transports me, once again, to my orchard of gnarled old friends.

  Janet Willoner, 2016

  ‘Du’s back then? Fine that. I hae something to tell dee . . . ’

  The old crofter pauses, weighing the awkwardness of what he has to say.

  ‘Something’s been takkin’ dy hens. I doot it’s da draatsi.’

  The clocks went back the day before I returned home to Shetland. As I step outside into an unusually still, moonless October evening, I can hear the lisping calls of countless redwings as they stream overhead, invisible in the absolute darkness. The air is heavy with moisture, and below me the sea sloughs rhythmically on the shingle beach at the foot of my small croft. I open the metal gate that leads into the grassy yard where my hens live, and play my torch across the door of the old stone byre in which they roost at night. The pop-hole in the door is still open – night had fallen well before I got home.

  There are neither streetlights nor immediate neighbouring houses here. My croft stands alone on the brow of a promontory at the north-eastern tip of one of Shetland’s smaller inhabited islands. My neighbours are the grey seals that watch me curiously from the sea, and my visitors at this time of year are the migrant birds that have blown in from Scandinavia. The news that an otter has been taking my hens while I’ve been away seems unlikely – in the ten years I have lived here in the islands I have never had any bother with them. Their local reputation seems entirely out of proportion with the reality of the charismatic animals I have spent many hours tracking and watching on the island. Apparently it’s not just domestic poultry that needs to worry about them:

  ‘When da draatsi bites du, he’ll no slip dee until he hears dy bones crack.’

  This is all at odds with my time spent sharing their lives in their coastal territories. I have lain in the glistening, slimy bronze straps of kelp at low tide watching adolescent siblings twisting and turning in a Medusan knot as they play-fight mere yards from me. I have watched otters hunting slippery butterfish, misshapen lumpsuckers and writhing octopuses, tracking their trail of exhaled bubbles on the water’s surface as they dive again and again until a catch is made and they swim in to land to consume it. I have watched them noisily courting one another, have listened to the anxious whistling of cubs unseen in their holt, and have seen their mother drive them away when they’ve grown up and should be seeking territories of their own.

  But I’ve never lost a hen to them.

  Rough edges of stamped-down turves stop me in my tracks as I walk to the byre. There are muddy bootprints in the glistening wet grass and, sticking to them, myriad small, pathetic downy white feathers.

  ‘I’ve buried aa dat wis left. I didna ken what tae do. I doot du widna want dem cast ower da banks.’

  Poor Lawrie, left in charge of feeding the free-ranging hens, has been left to clear away the remains of a daily incursion that has lasted a fortnight. ‘I ken dy peerie boy has names fur aa dem . . . ’

  Lawrie is right – my young son named all of the hens and I am dreading breaking the news to him. As I stand unhappily looking down at their rough grave, treacherously wishing Lawrie had chosen somewhere less obvious in which to bury them, I am suddenly struck by the most uncomfortable feeling that someone – something – is nearby.

  I swing the torch to my left and there, just beyond the wire fence that bounds the field, are a pair of dull red glowing eyes. The eyeshine is almost at the top of the fence. This is deeply unnerving and my immediate thought, irrationally, is that a large dog is watching me silently from the darkness. My stomach clenches slightly in what, I am later ashamed to admit, is primal fear.

  ‘Go on! Away with you! Go home!’ I shout at it. The eyes don’t move. ‘Go on!’

  I start walking towards them. The eyeshine suddenly drops, comes and goes quickly as the animal casts from side to side, and then vanishes altogether. In the weak light at the end of the torch’s beam I see a large, long dark shape humping and slouching unhurriedly away down the track to the road. It’s an otter, and a big one at that. Where he stood upright I find a perfect round hole worn through the long thick grass at the base of the fence. This is where he’s been coming and going. The gaps in the wire are too small to pull a hen through, but are just big enough to allow the passage of a determined male otter. I will later learn that this is where Lawrie found a dead hen every morning, partially consumed
as far from the byre as the otter could remove it.

  In the mud around the byre door are footprints. Those of the hens, and the distinctive pugmarks of an otter. My impression of size is borne out now – this is as big an otter as I’ve ever seen. The paw prints come and go, some fresh and some older and more obscure. Having found a ready food source he’s been returning to exploit it. The naturalist in me dispassionately notes this; the crofter and the father in me is upset, dismayed that our blameless and tame hens have been decimated.

  I shut the pop-hole in the byre door. If I feel angry, it is at myself. Mostly I feel guilty – perhaps I should have left the hens shut indoors while I was away? Has ten years of their freeranging without consequence allowed me to grow complacent? I walk back to the house contemplating a weekend of building a small, heavily wired outside run for the hens.

  Coming home on Friday evening I see a familiar and tragic sight by the roadside. Where the narrow road bisects my croft, an otter has been hit by a car. An all too common sight in Shetland, where otters exist in such high numbers but have never learned to associate danger with moving vehicles. I stoop to examine it. There is no helping this unfortunate animal – it is freshly dead, the body still warm, a small pool of vivid blood on the asphalt beneath its muzzle. This is my otter – a large, heavy old male, his size imposing even in death. His nose is badly scarred, his eyes rheumy and his claws worn and blunt. Prising open his jaws I find he is missing most of his teeth, and those that remain are in poor condition.

  After a life of roaming and fathering cubs around Whalsay he will have been finding catching fish an increasingly difficult task as age caught up with him and his physical condition deteriorated. At this time of year, with daylight hours rapidly dwindling and the weather deteriorating, his ability to hunt successfully will have been further impaired. Having chanced upon my hens he would have been unable to resist such easy pickings. Under the cover of darkness he had been returning from the shore to the byre to see if the pop-hole was open again. He was well into the autumn of his life, but now it has prematurely come to an end.