August and the soundtrack of bees
Monday 29th July. Admitted defeat and turned off the everhot. Stocked up on fat jars of sundried tomatoes and globe artichokes in oil. With hunks of cheese, salad leaves from the kitchen garden and an abundance of courgettes, that'll do until September.
Tuesday 30th July. Wild clematis is now out in earnest. It grows in rambling waves along the track behind the church that leads to the field gate. Every year I watch it grow and hope that the seedheads fluff up before the farmer comes to cut them all back and clear the ditch. It has seeded into my formal beech hedge behind the cottage which, although far from ideal, at least gives me a back up.
Wednesday 31st July. Harvested strawflowers. General concensus is that the stems break and weaken almost as soon as they are cut, so I snipped off the heads immediately and wired them for drying. I wish I hadn't fallen for them in the way I have, but the colours are just wonderful.
Thursday 1st August. August. I woke early and realised that the sun was only just coming over the hill. The days are shortening. I am ready for this. So much has been built and planted and changed this season, I'm ready to let it settle and rest and get roots down. August is hard work for flowers; there's nothing measured at this time of year, it's bloom for survival. Deadheaded cornflowers and cosmos.
Friday 2nd August. Velvet ribbon delivery from VV Rouleaux in preparation for Christmas sweet pea bundles and florist's boxes. Seduced by the names of colours. Hellebore green. Onion skin. Nicotiana. Barley dust. Stirred coffee. Have to put them to one side as there are more pressing matters. Start to pull daucus and nigella for drying. Go up and down the rows of calendula with a paper bag catching the seedheads that are ready before they shatter to the ground and are lost.
Saturday 3rd August. Make the most of the dry weather and have a bonfire. The branches of hawthorn that I couldn't bring myself to clear are the first to go on. Endless bundles of espalier prunings are the second. Even the no dig beds have seeded with thistles and I hoe around the rows and eat yellow plums out of the hedge with one eye on the fire. Living in a thatched cottage makes you careful.
Sunday 4th August. I was planning to mow but there was a surprise afternoon of rain. It didn't seem to freshen the air, but left the day even muggier than before. I have bundled up armfuls of the daucus and have started to clear the rest of the bed. Find a flush of self sown echinops underneath. As I write this on Sunday night, I realise I am not ready for this summer to end yet. As I walk the dogs, the sun is low and warm over the back field and the grass is turning caramel. The swallows chase and tease the girls as they gallop in circles. Even away from the bee-crowded garden, there is a lazy hum of life in the air. The smell of autumn is a sharp tang, but the scent of August is thick, rich, sweet, deliciously golden.