OUT in the fields, the post-harvest hush and that sense of summer ending. On a strand of sagging barbed wire, a single yellowhammer drone: ‘A little bit of bread and no cheese. A little bit of bread and no cheese.’ Everywhere, that incipient melancholy of August, which Kipling noted in The Long Trail:
There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, And the ricks stand grey to the sun, Singing: ‘Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover, And your English summer’s done.
Everywhere except the stream, that is. Nature does not work to a uniform, all-enveloping timescale. By the stream, there is no such stillness, no such sense of summer being over. August is the stream’s lush time. Along the banks, the flowers bloom like a herbaceous border by Gertrude Jekyll, and a benefit of the year’s rain is that the water is as deep now as in March, rather than being its usual late-summer trickle.
It has been a long, hot afternoon (helping a neighbor with the combining, segued into grooming horses—the lot of it breathless work on a breathless day). I’ve come down to the stream for a swim and, I suppose, a dose of invigoration. A swim in a time and place such as this is a recapturing, albeit temporary, of the vitality of spring and early summer. When the views were all forwards.
Perhaps ‘swim’ is an over-description; the stream, at best, widens and deepens into a grey stone basin three strokes long, 3ft deep —a plunge pool made by Nature.
Denne historien er fra August 25, 2021-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Denne historien er fra August 25, 2021-utgaven av Country Life UK.
Start din 7-dagers gratis prøveperiode på Magzter GOLD for å få tilgang til tusenvis av utvalgte premiumhistorier og 9000+ magasiner og aviser.
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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