There’s a plant sale on, and we are doing well as I arrive. By the time I leave there’s not much left to sell which is the aim. The tables are outside the garden, and there’s three or four volunteers chatting and selling plants. I wander into the garden; it’s pretty busy. Children playing with Lego, the mud kitchen is always an attraction, the chatter reminding me of Wetherspoons. Though our spoons has left Forest Gate, much to the advantage of the Forest Tavern.
It’s a warm morning, with a gentle breeze and the sun in and out of amorphous cumulus clouds. A pleasant place to relax. No bad vibes allowed. Near the herb bed, there’s a scatter of laminated A4 children’s spotter sheets, a colourful chaotic carpet being tidied for the time being, to become chaotic again in a short while. It’s the fall of man perhaps, entropy has us in its thrall.
This is meteorological autumn, which began on 1st of the month, astrological autumn comes with the equinox, on September 21st, that great division of day and night. Equality on that day, and thereafter the night winning out till the winter solstice in the dark days of December.
The buddleia is tall and still flowering. There’s no possibility of dead-heading the high up decayed florets, 10 to 12 feet above, without a ladder or a pole vaulter. Armand Duplantis could get up there with ease, he holds the world record at 6.29m (20.6 feet), and could gather a few dead-heads on the way down. But we can’t offer a soft landing, so I doubt he’ll come. Normally, we cut back the buddleia this time of year, down to a metre of so. But we have decided to leave it until the spring. A good idea I think as it will remain a feature over the winter.
Our metre cubes (IBCs) are three-quarters full, after the recent rain. As someone said: when they are full you don’t need them anyway. And likely we hardly will till spring. The cooler days allow the soil to retain the moisture longer. The garden is very green. Not a lot of flowers, making the few we have more noticeable. There’s a hibiscus near the mid gate, white trumpets with mauve centres. Our grape vine, on the small pergola, has quite a few of the higher grape bunches stripped away. Too high for children, or adults. It must be birds or squirrels. They are tiny grapes. I taste one, it is sweet; the taste of autumn.
Our pond is quite overgrown. The irises and water lilies need thinning out. Perhaps next month. I am pleased with the growth of our papyrus; it’s about a metre high, though would be 3m on the Nile. It was the first paper, originating in the days of the pharaohs. When seeing the ancient Egyptian seals in the British Museum, I recall thinking how close they were to printing. It required so small a leap to make seals of individual hieroglyphs, make an ink and so print on papyrus. Then again, it was the ability to read and write that made the priest class powerful, and they had no desire to spread the knowledge beyond themselves. It would demystify them, put them out of a job.
Looking back on the summer in the garden, I think how successful our fortnightly Sunday talks were. They covered: garden soil, garden science, AI, gay gardening, self publishing, Jimi Hendrix at the Uppercut, and searching family history. In the mornings there was the ukulele class, the numbers holding throughout the summer, and then an hour or two later the talks. Our shelter, paid for with PPP (People Powered Places) money has proved its worth. In the summer the walls were up all the time, these cooler days brings them down more often.