THE poets may praise the mellow mists, but what is special about October for real ruralists are the vital, exhilarating mornings, with the sky so wind-wiped clean of cloud you can see clear into the stratosphere. And then the Holy Trinity of smells on the frosted-edged air: rotting leaves, bonfires and gunpowder from Eley cartridges. All of these are a sort of incense.
There is only one place to be in autumn and that is in the country—and, within that geography, in the classic landscape of field and hedge, brook and copse.
For years now, I have been engaged in a history of English farming, using a device I term ‘Method Writing’™, meaning I try to live the period concerned. I have ploughed with an antler like the prehistorics, made ‘tree hay’ in the style of Saxons, scattered seed from a waist pouch as a medieval peasant would have done, eaten a Tudor wedding cake (made from meat, surprisingly) and scythed hay like the Victorian ‘hodge’. Now, I am in my Edwardian age.
Accordingly, on this fine morning of about 1904, I am out and about with a .410 shotgun, seeking something for the pot. In my conjured scenario, I am a tenant farmer; consequently, the targets for lunch are ‘vermin’, such as coney and pigeon—the high-value, high-falutin’ ‘game’ belongs to my landlord.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة October 28, 2020 من Country Life UK.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك ? تسجيل الدخول
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة October 28, 2020 من Country Life UK.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
Kitchen garden cook - Apples
'Sweet and crisp, apples are the epitome of autumn flavour'
The original Mr Rochester
Three classic houses in North Yorkshire have come to the market; the owner of one inspired Charlotte Brontë to write Jane Eyre
Get it write
Desks, once akin to instruments of torture for scribes, have become cherished repositories of memories and secrets. Matthew Dennison charts their evolution
'Sloes hath ben my food'
A possible paint for the Picts and a definite culprit in tea fraud, the cheek-suckingly sour sloe's spiritual home is indisputably in gin, says John Wright
Souvenirs of greatness
FOR many years, some large boxes have been stored and forgotten in the dark recesses of the garage. Unpacked last week, the contents turned out to be pots: some, perhaps, nearing a century old—dense terracotta, of interesting provenance.
Plants for plants' sake
The garden at Hergest Croft, Herefordshire The home of Edward Banks The Banks family is synonymous with an extraordinary collection of trees and shrubs, many of which are presents from distinguished friends, garnered over two centuries. Be prepared to be amazed, says Charles Quest-Ritson
Capturing the castle
Seventy years after Christian Dior’s last fashion show in Scotland, the brand returned under creative director Maria Grazia Chiuri for a celebratory event honouring local craftsmanship, the beauty of the land and the Auld Alliance, explains Kim Parker
Nature's own cathedral
Our tallest native tree 'most lovely of all', the stately beech creates a shaded environment that few plants can survive. John Lewis-Stempel ventures into the enchanted woods
All that money could buy
A new book explores the lost riches of London's grand houses. Its author, Steven Brindle, looks at the residences of plutocrats built by the nouveaux riches of the late-Victorian and Edwardian ages
In with the old
Diamonds are meant to sparkle in candlelight, but many now gather dust in jewellery boxes. To wear them today, we may need to reimagine them, as Hetty Lintell discovers with her grandmother's jewellery
