A solitary robin breaks the heavy silence with his call
from the plum tree that overhangs the vegetable shed. A pause as I open the door and look for him amongst
the bare branches. He suddenly darts down onto the ground, hops towards the
shed and then he is gone, disappearing across the allotment. Silence. Even the
rooks have nothing to complain about this morning.
The air lying in the valley is still, quiet. There is a
greyness where the sky blends into the softness of the hills in the distance. Corners
are fuzzy and there is a hint of dampness hanging just above the grass. There
is a smell of rotting leaves and wet earth. For the last month October has
stomped its way across the allotment, dragging wind and rain behind it, stirred
up storm after storm, picked up the tail of a hurricane turning the sun blood red
and mid-afternoon night, rocked the fruit trees, torn at the polytunnel,
rattled the glass in the greenhouses and shaken the roof of the shed.
Today is respite, a lull. Above the grey the sky has
lightened and scattered patches of blue are floating across the field. It has
been raining leaves all morning. They fall gently, drifting down to nestle on
the damp earth, small splashes of yellow, orange and red.
The clocks have changed, autumn is sinking into winter, sunrise
and sunset have moved closer together, the days have shortened and the air has
lost its warmth. Sadness has crept in.
The shed strikes cold as I enter. I need a cup of tea to
get me going this morning. As I switch on the kettle I look out at the fruit
trees and across the allotment. Last week we stripped out the remaining beans
poles, unravelled the tendrils of the plants and collected the brown shrivelled
pods. We dug out the dried stalks of the sweetcorn. The sunflowers were chopped
up and carted to the compost heap. The last of the husks of the marrows,
emptied by the squirrels, were thrown into the wheel barrow and tipped beside
the sunflowers. All that is left behind is heavy, wet, bare brown earth.
The end of the season.
Across the field, beyond the fruit cages I can hear the
chickens and the ducks. They too know it is autumn. As the days have shortened
they have stopped laying eggs and several of them are moulting; pecking around
in the mud looking forlorn and scruffy. Some of the ducks have already been
through their moult and they are looking very smart with neat well preened dark
brown feathers. As they splash into the pond first thing in the morning I watch
the murky green pond water slide off their glistening backs. They are laying
well compared with the hens and I just wish I could persuade the family to
enjoy their eggs as much as their sisters'.
Back in September I increased the size of the flock by
buying in some point of lay hens which I am hoping will come into lay any day
now to provide me with enough eggs for the winter while my old girls have a
well-deserved rest. They are a mixture of black glossy Copper Maran’s, brown muted
Rangers and Black Tails (Rangers in disguise with black feathers in their (you
guessed it) tails. They have had a rough ride since they arrived; new kids on
the block who have been bullied as a new pecking order has been established.
They were not welcome at the feeder or into the coop at night to begin with but
things seem to be settling down. Cold war rather than armed hostility. One of
the incomers very quickly became adept at dodging aggressive, grumpy old hens,
pushing in to get what she wanted and the others are slowly following her
example. A chicken to watch! Cleaning
out the coop last week and watching the group of new arrivals scratching around
I noticed that the combs on the top of their heads have reddened up, a sign
that they are about to start laying. My winter egg supply?
I just need to ensure that the chickens and ducks are safe
now that the evenings are drawing in so fast. It is dark before five and as the
sky gathers the heavy clouds of night together, creatures of the dark emerge. For
the last week there has been a tawny owl calling from the trees on the bank
above the shed and an echo across the valley. A haunting welcome sound but last
night just as I connected the electric fence around the duck run, the hair on
the back of my neck prickled as the eerie cry of a fox drifted out of the
gathering gloom at the far end of the field. Winter is coming; a lean time for
all, cold, wet, hunger, desperation and only a wire fence and a wooden shed
separate predator and prey. As I finish the welcome cup of tea and move outside
I make a mental note to check the fence is working as it should.
Clear blue sky appears and there is warmth in the sun on my
face as I haul the wheelbarrow out of the field shed towards the dung heap.
There is still much to do before I put the allotment to bed for the winter.
Those areas I have not managed to sow with green manure, turn with the
cultivator or dig can still be mulched with well-rotted horse dung. There is
celeriac to lift and the strawberry plants need weeding, the long brown stalks
of the asparagus need trimming, raspberries need tying in, and there are
brambles along the fence beside the greenhouse that need cutting back.
The end of one season and the beginning of another.
