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.
Esta historia es de la edición October 28, 2020 de Country Life UK.
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Save our family farms
IT Tremains to be seen whether the Government will listen to the more than 20,000 farming people who thronged Whitehall in central London on November 19 to protest against changes to inheritance tax that could destroy countless family farms, but the impact of the good-hearted, sombre crowds was immediate and positive.
A very good dog
THE Spanish Pointer (1766–68) by Stubbs, a landmark painting in that it is the artist’s first depiction of a dog, has only been exhibited once in the 250 years since it was painted.
The great astral sneeze
Aurora Borealis, linked to celestial reindeer, firefoxes and assassinations, is one of Nature's most mesmerising, if fickle displays and has made headlines this year. Harry Pearson finds out why
'What a good boy am I'
We think of them as the stuff of childhood, but nursery rhymes such as Little Jack Horner tell tales of decidedly adult carryings-on, discovers Ian Morton
Forever a chorister
The music-and way of living-of the cabaret performer Kit Hesketh-Harvey was rooted in his upbringing as a cathedral chorister, as his sister, Sarah Sands, discovered after his death
Best of British
In this collection of short (5,000-6,000-word) pen portraits, writes the author, 'I wanted to present a number of \"Great British Commanders\" as individuals; not because I am a devotee of the \"great man, or woman, school of history\", but simply because the task is interesting.' It is, and so are Michael Clarke's choices.
Old habits die hard
Once an antique dealer, always an antique dealer, even well into retirement age, as a crop of interesting sales past and future proves
It takes the biscuit
Biscuit tins, with their whimsical shapes and delightful motifs, spark nostalgic memories of grandmother's sweet tea, but they are a remarkably recent invention. Matthew Dennison pays tribute to the ingenious Victorians who devised them
It's always darkest before the dawn
After witnessing a particularly lacklustre and insipid dawn on a leaden November day, John Lewis-Stempel takes solace in the fleeting appearance of a rare black fox and a kestrel in hot pursuit of a pipistrelle bat
Tarrying in the mulberry shade
On a visit to the Gainsborough Museum in Sudbury, Suffolk, in August, I lost my husband for half an hour and began to get nervous. Fortunately, an attendant had spotted him vanishing under the cloak of the old mulberry tree in the garden.
