Tag: autumn

Changes

The cherry tree is losing its leaves. The camellia is flowering.

Autumn is a time of contrasts. You begin wearing shoes and socks, then change to jandals – then back to shoes and socks. A day begins misty then clears to sunshine. Leaves are turning yellow and falling, and new flowers are coming out. Fruit is ripe, and birds are making the most of the myrtle berries and grapes before they rot.

Ripening feijoas
Blackbird eating myrtle berries
Grapes ripe and rotting

Changes are happening in the city all the time. The new Court Theatre opened this week. A few doors down the street, the old Isaac Theatre Royal with its traditional architecture reminds us of the past, even when it is zhooshed up at night.

The End of the Golden Weather fits for the first performance at The Court Theatre. The play reminds me of the beginnings of professional theatre in NZ (I saw Bruce Mason perform it solo in the 1970s) and of a time when summer centred on the beach, and families ate afternoon tea from tea trolleys and played charades – and many made sport of the less fortunate. We still do, it seems; more brutal when it is government policy.

It makes me think of what has changed and what hasn’t. I change from my sixties (freedom: I may do as I like) to my seventies (I may do as I like but can I?) this month. It is daunting (checking for signs of decrepitude), yet I’m curious to know what comes next (not the decrepitude bit). It’s plays, books, the newspaper and history which remind me that a lot changes in the world and a lot does not. That’s why Shakespeare – and Bruce Mason – remains relevant. I’m still waiting to see what we can achieve to redeem ourselves.

The astronauts in Orbital circling the earth continually, get the big picture. They see night turn to day, note weather patterns changing, and observe other evidence of our impact on the planet. They conclude that the solution to our survival is not in outer space.

I can imagine what they see, but I’m pretty short-sighted, just living in the moment: Is it time to put extra blankets on the beds? what’s for dinner? what’s the weather like? what will I wear today? – that sort of thing.

Time may change me

But I can’t trace time.

– David Bowie gave us a masterclass in adaptability and re-inventing yourself. Even he sounded uncertain when he sang ‘Ch-ch-ch-ch -changes’.

That time of year

That time of year thou mayst in me behold,

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

William Shakespeare, Sonnet 73

A friend and fellow blogger wrote of how strange it is to celebrate Easter in Autumn as we do here in the Southern Hemisphere. It is a Spring festival. Halloween should be now instead. Easter, Halloween and Christmas have simply been transplanted according to the calendar year instead of by the seasons. It is great that we have our own Matariki at the right time of year, following the Māori lunar calendar. Still, I enjoy a summer Christmas, and hot cross buns seem right as the temperatures cool, and I love being able to get the full range of locally made Queen Anne chocolates – shallow as I am!

Cute tea towels can be irresistible too – not to mention the delicious new flavour from Whittakers

The leaves haven’t fallen yet, as they have in Shakespeare’s sonnet, but there are some lovely colours appearing. I saw a golden tree last week which lit up Norman’s Road, opposite St Andrew’s College.

I stepped outside this morning into the sunshine after two rather gloomy, overcast days. There was a mackerel sky in every direction. A friend, visiting over Easter, mentioned noticing a mackerel sky where she lives in the North Island.

From my back garden looking North
East
South
And from the street looking north west
Autumn colours, looking west from my gate

And now the clouds have joined up into another overcast sky and I’m reaching for a warm jersey. That time of year.

It’s cold!

How did this happen? One minute you’re in shorts, and the next you’re digging merinos out of the back of a drawer. Last night we had our first fire for the year. According to my 2023 diary, our first fire was on 21 March and we had rainy, windy weather around that time which blew down my runner beans and turned my umbrella inside out. But we also had ‘gorgeous’ days and continued to paddle at the beach.

When I noticed Mum reaching for a knee rug yesterday afternoon, I knew it was time to light the fire. Felix was quick to find a fireside chair. He is quite recovered from his annual visit to the vet for his vaccination. He came down from the top of the cabbage tree just in time to make the appointment. His weight has doubled since his appointment in March last year, but he is still lean at 4.46kg and is advised to eat more wet food each day to ensure he is hydrated. Felix is quite happy about that. Despite the three claw punctures in his right ear, there’s no sign of infection. He has the odd altercation with visiting cats, such as the one he bailed up on the roof this week. Felix has a ‘don’t mess with me’ look on his face which seems to work despite the other cat being much larger.

This morning, he’s enjoying the sun. Notice that Mum has put her walker aside; she is walking independently more often.

Glowing and growing

The illuminating properties of light, literal and metaphorical, have always lifted people’s spirits. I can’t help but be cheered by tomatoes glowing in the sun on a windowsill where they have been put to ripen.

Soup made from freshly-picked tomatoes is also cheering – and warming, as autumn weather bites around the edges.

The autumn-fruiting raspberries are glowing so that, even in half-light, it is easy to distinguish which are the best to pick. I like that one branch has numerous fruit in various stages of development. It looks as if they will go on ripening for a while yet.

The cranberries are not only ripe but sweet-smelling as you brush past them on the path.

New plants are growing and seeds of last-chance salad greens have sprouted.

The news informs us, but it does not lift our spirits as a garden can.

My heart breaks for the people who have to flee their homes, their gardens, their animals, their life-time of effort, for an unimaginable future.

Harvest season

We’re enjoying the last of the season’s vegetables from my garden.

The autumn raspberries are beginning now, however, and are best eaten straight from the canes. Bees are still all over the raspberry flowers, so there is plenty more fruit to come.

The roses are still producing their second flush of flowers – less enthusiastically than the first, but charming nevertheless. The shasta daisies are all but finished, but the Japanese anemones are at their best.

The days are often warm and calm. The evening sun stretches in through the front door.

I’ve replenished some hanging baskets to add some colour and interest – and to use up scraps of coir lining.

I splashed out on a water feature – the least kitschy one I could find!

Also on my shopping list were new gumboots and a garden hose. I spotted this sign on a door at The Portstone garden centre:

The Grow Festival is on this weekend in the Botanic Gardens. The school gardens are delightful. Each garden had helpful students ready to answer your questions and explain how each part of the garden showed what they had learnt.

Adults had been creative too, with garden designs and accessories.

There were workshops on subjects such as tree pruning, and Ruud Kleinpaste (“the bug man”) gave an impassioned talk about how each part of our environment interacts and how we can help. This reminded me of aspects of the BBC programme featuring Judy Dench and her love of trees.

The nearby cafe was offering seasonal food – barbecued corn with spicy toppings and fresh watermelon.

This is a truly delectable time of year.