From summer to the autumn equinox

Beyond the shelter of our garden hedges autumn now rushes in full throttle, filling the gaps left by the departure of a remarkable summer. Dry heat and gentle sea breezes, unusual for the Highlands, provided perfect conditions for paddling, swimming and sand castle building. And so, from June to September’s start, our home was filled with family and the noisy exuberance of grandchildren.

On the croft, all summer long, the flowers and grasses strived to reach the sun. They thrived, just like our small visitors. After a stuttering start due to the very wet cold spring, and as soon as the heat and light began to flow, the blooming was swift.

Of course, by the end of August, just as the meadows ripened and plans for this year’s hay harvest were coming together, the gales returned carrying heavy rains in from the Atlantic. While the young crofters from Opinan smiled and bided their time, I waited impatiently, hoping the showers hadn’t done too much damage to the dense deep vegetation. But following a forecast for a few dry days in early September, ‘M’ came with his father’s tractor, and within a few hours the hayfields were cut.

Then, overnight, a rogue shower dampened everything. The rows of cut grass shone; everything and everywhere glistened with raindrops. My heart sank. The advice from wiser heads than mine was to “wait, be patient, the warm winds will return”. And so they did. Over the next few days, the piles of grasses and flowers began to dry and pale. Slowly, gradually – too slowly it seemed to me – temperatures rose and gentle breezes sang of the sea. Soon the perfumes of cut grasses and wildflowers swelled to fill the valley. The aromas do not last long, a week at most, but they are exotic, mystical and enriching.

Each year, at the height of haymaking, windows are pushed wide open and the scent of hay rises and seeps into the house. In the deepening nights, pillows and quilts seem made of dried aromatic flowers sewn together by threads of perfumed grass. It is easy to dream. No wonder folk used to stuff their mattresses with grasses and scented herbs. Coumarin has power.

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We are a few weeks on from the baling of hay. Six ponies have been grazing the field margins, browsing the shrubs and spreading the last seeds about. They are labour- and machine- saving organisms, trimming where tractors cannot cut or where scythe work is difficult. And they are happy to clamber up and down the steep riverbank, ruffling edges and ultimately providing a new foothold for riparian species while helping the natural wiggling of the river itself.

The ponies are beautiful. Two are the dappled greys of autumn mists, the others, the dark umber of Highland peats. They cope well with the fast-changing conditions – rain, shine, rain, gales, shine, rain – and as autumn weather becomes increasingly volatile, their silky coats begin to thicken.

Once again, around the croft rowans are almost bending over with the weight of crimson berries while close to the house an ancient hawthorn is covered in dark red haws. It has not produced this many before. I wonder whether together these trees are speaking of hardships to come. My grandmother always said fruit-laden rowans predicted harsh winters, but hawthorns? I happened to ask a friend in the US about whether they grew near her home and she replied that across the ‘Pond’ there are dozens and dozens of varieties with traditional uses as varied as their names. I only know Crataegus monogyna which across the UK has a long history of medicinal and culinary uses as well as close associations with myth and legends. There are few hawthorns here in South Erradae but rowans are everywhere, protecting houses both young and ancient.

We have continued to walk back and forth to the beach since the little ones stayed here and the blustery spaces are filled with happy memories. There are more birds about now the shore is less busy. Perhaps it is a trick of memory. I recall, and have recorded on my phone, plenty of birdsong at the beach even when the children were running in and out of the waves, but I must have been too busy with buckets and spades to really take notice. When we sit at the sea-log-seat now, both shore and sea birds ignore us. They have reclaimed their place. But I miss the children terribly.

I have written about haymaking and the beach in Windswept*. Both are important in different ways. The book marks key events in the annual cycle of life here in South Erradale using nature’s indicators – red berries on the rowans, swallows leaving, hay-making, late flowers blooming – but this year there are strange and unsettling differences. Many of the predictable markers recorded over the last decade have been upended this year and I’m not sure yet what any of it means.

My eyes have been on the skies as well as the sea, shore and croft, and as the weather has worsened, I have been looking to the hills and well as distant islands. Together, they appear to converse with our wee valley, transmitting energies and influencing the flow of light and sound. Colours seem to be shifting; new scents riddle the air. But there are such dreadful stories of very dramatic weather events and natural disasters across the world that puzzling over the much more subtle changes here has felt unwarranted and unnecessary.

One day, while walking along the shore, I fell and broke my wrist and arm. I yelped in pain, not realising at first that bones were broken. I was furious because I was wet and covered in muck. And yes, I cried, mostly because I was cross. The topsy-turvyness I had been feeling all around this place tripped me up. At least, that is how it felt.

When I began to type this short piece (very slowly with my left hand) the wind shifted round to the north with a loud suddenness. It was cold and gusting strongly and I hoped it was not a warning of more shifting and perturbations to come. My wrist and arm, safely cocooned in a cast, ached.

But today is the autumn equinox, the point at which Windswept really begins. The weather is golden, the air wistful, calm and warm. It is lovely to have the spun-gold light of September back after a week of hard rain and grey cloud. The light feels serendipitous somehow, a celebration of sorts, for words written in a golden September a year or so ago, words that are winging their way around the world.

The long walk into deep dark begins now but there are many wonders to be found in the shorter days and longer nights. Today, it is time for a reset. And I am getting my rhythm back, cast or no cast.

* Windswept: Life, Nature and Deep Time in the Scottish Highlands is published by William Collins and is available at all the usual places. If you can, please do support your local independent bookshops.