The Seasonal Shift: Notes from the Garden Bench
Tea in hand, watching summer fade and autumn slip in… when shorts are rightly questioned and tea loaf makes its triumphant return.
Sitting on a white Lutyens-style bench, tucked in the Flower Garden borders, sipping a hefty mug of hot tea, I realised I was looking at a garden that was past its peak… with an invisible cast and crew saying, “That’s a wrap, ladies and gentlemen.” - equipment quietly packed away and dressing rooms cleared.
Here in the UK, after weeks of heat and drought, the weather has changed abruptly. Lively Atlantic weather systems are sweeping in with their desperately needed rain. It is refreshing. A relief, even. I am utterly sick of watering.
But I have a chuckle to myself, wondering how long it will be before gardeners up and down the country start complaining they are sick of rain. We are a fickle bunch.
As I sip my tea, the cool breeze rustles through the drying leaves and raises goosebumps. The sun feels gentler now, its energy slipping away. The days are shortening. They have been since June, of course, so it should not really be a surprise. Yet while we humans put labels on months and seasons with our tidy calendars, festivals and holidays, nature carries on at its own pace.
Plants and garden friends feel the light and warmth fading as we do, but thankfully they do not say, “Oh, it is September, time to turn all my leaves brown and throw them on the ground!”
Here, as in every garden, the changes are small and barely noticeable, until suddenly they are not. Today, it feels as though the season has shifted overnight. So, I decided to sit here and note all the little things that are happening, and some that are not.
House & Home
Steam now billows very thickly from the kettle and must be blown aside to find the teapot. Conservatory windows mist up in the mornings and I am still refusing to put the central heating on.
Gutters drip as rolling moss and fallen leaves clog the downpipes (a job for the to do list). Then the downpours arrive, sending little waterfalls over the windows and splattering off the sills. The sound is strangely comforting.
Wandering into a room and remarking on how dark it is, swiftly followed by several seconds of dimmer-switch fiddling, balancing light and candles for ideal late afternoon and early evening ambience to accompany Agatha Christie’s Marple.
Satisfyingly rich and sticky tea loaf is back on the menu and the cake tin is once again reassuringly heavy. Best served warm with a scraping of butter and an extra strong brew.
The first of the apple-and-something crumbles has been demolished. Beefy pastas, hearty roasts with a smothering of onion gravy, and molten cheese-topped bakes fill the cottage with a warm, comforting, yet strangely nostalgic air.
Drinks follow suit, shifting from ice-filled cocktails and crisp whites to deep, plummy reds, gently warming by the side of the (frankly terrifyingly hot) AGA.
Clothes & Tools
The habitual grab for shorts is now rather hesitant. There’s a pause before they are pulled on or regretfully put back. The thought of wet vegetation clinging to bare legs suddenly feels less refreshing and more shiver-inducing.
Long sleeves creep back into rotation. “I’ll just take the light fleece, just in case,” becomes the regular refrain, swiftly followed by, “Have you seen my hoodie?” The tweed cap and wool beanie are dug out from their hiding places, given a perfunctory pat against the hip to shake off any dust.
Gardening boots are inspected for lurking spiders and their ghostly exuviae. Thicker gloves are retrieved from the bottom of the basket. The firewood store gets a thoughtful glance, usually accompanied by, “I should probably order now…” but I will definitely forget.
There’s more time for sharpening blades, putting tools back exactly where they belong (rather than swiftly thrown in the corner), and giving spades and forks a proper wipe-down.
The leaf rake and bulb planter catch my attention for the first time in months, while I mutter about cleaning the mower - as it settles in for its own forced hibernation until late spring.
Water-feature pumps frequently clog with leaves and millions of tiny, winged birch seeds. Fishing them out with a net becomes the new morning ritual. I can’t help but cast a disapproving eye-up over the balling rose blooms, while I ponder the relevance of deadheading faded flowers. (Yes, it is still worth it.)
Out There
The light shifts almost imperceptibly, day by day. Daylight feels sharper, clearer. Evenings glow with a low, honeyed light, and shadows stretch just that bit further, starting just that little bit earlier.
Sunsets are richer now and seem to linger on the horizon. These are the kinds of evenings that makes me sit outside with a jumper on, just to watch the sky change… as I ponder the great annual question: Should I order a fire pit
More than any other month, September sunsets nudge something inside… a quiet prompt to savour the moment, a gentle reminder of the impending scarcity of daylight.
There’s an earthiness in the air, hard to define. Whiffs of mushrooms, ripening elderberries, overripe plums crushed underfoot, and the faint cider tang of fallen crab apples drift past on the breeze.
And there, people walking past, leaving collective booted thuds on the lane where, only a week ago, they passed silently in (sneakers) trainers and crocs.
The wind begins to play rougher games. It pushes and pulls at the trees, loosening the first leaves and sending them spinning gracefully to the ground. Branches scratch, scrape, and clatter. Leaves shuffle and shiver. Plants tremble and bow as gusts pass through.
Soon there will be a rustle, crunch, and crackle underfoot, something my inner child still adores. It won’t be long before I’ll pile up those fallen leaves, jump in them (because what the hell), and swap barrowloads of crumbly leafmould for a fresh harvest of leaves.
Plants Fade
Hydrangea paniculata quietly shift from white and cream to pinks and plummy reds, or maybe green, often all three at once in a surprisingly eye-catching combination. Cherry leaves blush red. Hosta foliage suddenly loses its lush vigour as yellow edges creep inward. The silken plumes of miscanthus take on bronze and ruby tones, brushing against the now completely biscuity calamagrostis.
In the Kitchen Garden, the air is heavy with the scent of overripe tomatoes and the gentle decay of squash and courgette leaves. Leeks stand to attention, swelling in their rows. Self-sown nasturtiums pop up in paths and beds. Kuri squash deepen to a glowing orange-red and their stalks brown and look more woody… they’re ready for harvest.
The bracket fungus, bulging out from the timber raised beds, is noted with a sigh. It is never a good sign for longevity.
Garden Friends
The garden is noticeably quiet now. The busy buzz of high summer has melted away. The dawn chorus is muted, as though half the ensemble have packed up and moved on to better things.
Daytime calls are subdued. Only the robins, song thrush, and blackbirds chatter, ticking off neighbours for crossing boundaries or announcing that a suspicious-looking feline is tiptoeing up the bridleway - not quite as deftly as it thinks.
The wheeling swifts, swallows and martins have gone, leaving the skies mournfully empty. Red kites still drift overhead, though they seem to drift more over the fields than our village gardens. Soon the starlings will return, followed by the shadowy flocks of rooks, jackdaws and crows.
(Is there a more wintry sound than the cawing of crows?)
The hedgerows, already dripping with glossy red berries, will soon host chattering fieldfares and softly chirruping redwings. Small flocks of goldfinches drift overhead, with their tinkling trills.
Honeybees and cabbage whites have seemingly vanished overnight. On warm days, ladybirds bask on sunny walls and enormous golf-ball-sized queen bumblebees bounce and bump their way around the flowers, feeding greedily before winter.
Red admiral, peacock, small tortoiseshell, comma and painted lady butterflies appear as if by magic, basking on fence panels, sun-warmed gravel, paving stones… anything that holds the sun’s warmth. I am glad to see so many.
Less glad to see all the spiders, busy webbing their way across paths and doorways, meticulously measuring their position so they’re always at head height… ready to ensnare my face, swiftly followed by“Ew, yuck, blech… plah, plah!!!”
Mind & Mood
Everything feels quieter, slower, softer. The garden is still full of colour, but it is gently fading to green and brown at the same time as petals fall and leaves slowly wither.
Autumn is beginning, like a long, slow exhale after the tumult of summer. Months of baking heat and parched earth giving way to cool nights and damp, forgiving soil.
The seasonal shift is underway, yes. But rather than just accepting this as the inevitable ending to the growing season, you could simply change the narrative and see autumn as the immediate beginning of the next.
For example, there’s no putting the garden to bed here. No winter pause. Admittedly, our climate is (mostly) kind enough to allow gardening all year round. But, to me, October really feels like the start.
The Gardening New Year, if you like.
It is the time for planting hope with those adorably cheerful spring-flowering bulbs, revitalising tired and congested perennials by lifting and dividing, a cathartic cutting back and clearing of deadwood, mulching to reinvigorate tired soil, and quietly planning what comes next.
So please don’t be sad. There’s really no need (or time) to mourn summer. Grab a notepad and wander your garden. Note your observations. Look at your photos from the previous year. List all the things you loved. List all the things that you didn't. Underline and double asterisk ** the things that irritated.
Autumn and winter are times for taking stock, for honest reflection, for planning, and making changes. It’s the time for gardeners to make next year even better! 🌿
I hope you enjoyed this little read. I really appreciate your company here. If you’d like to support these ramblings, tap the heart, share with a friend, or drop a comment… every little bit helps spread the word.
Best wishes and happy gardening,
Elliott 💚
Coming up…
The first of my spring bulb series. A great one for beginners! This first instalment look at the actual flower bulb. What are they? Why are they little miracles? Where to buy them? Are tulips perennial? Which are the reliably perennial bulbs? All that good stuff.
For my lovely paid subscribers, you’ll also have the Late Summer Tour. OK, admittedly it’s a little late, but there’s lot’s to discuss. I’ll be looking at how the gardens performed this year, some reflections, and my plans for next season. You’ll want a full pot of tea and scrumptious slab of cake for this one.
I really enjoyed reading this, and am now going to try and embrace autumn rather than mourn the end of summer. Thank you.
What a lovely read. Your words make me feel I am immersed in your surroundings and although still deep into putting our own stamp into our new home with a bare edge to edge grass garden, you have given me the nudge to get those borders dug out ready for planting. Cuttings and shrubs in big pots we brought with us have survived well but need to be in the ground to hunker down and build up for next year hopefully to emerge stronger. A year of recovering from major surgery has meant just sitting back and planning in my head for a new garden to take shape, wish me luck!