The end of summer

It feels like the end of summer.

The nights are drawing in and the skies are dark by nine pm now. There’s a nip in the air, and mist and cloud inversions cling to the mountains on many of our mornings.

The glowing intensity of the rowan berries growing in our hedgerows always makes me smile. We’re surrounded by wild, self-seeded rowan trees, heavy with fruit, which always seem to me such courageous things, growing as they do in the most wild and inhospitable of places.

They’re supposed to be protection against fairies and witches in local folklore, and to this day there are people on the island that refuse to cut them down. The remembrance of the old ways is still strong.

I don’t think that the sisterhood would mind if I took some of the berries to make rowan jelly, though. I haven’t tried making it yet, but I must.

The brambles are in full profusion now, and every few days I wander down the lane to pick a bagful for the freezer, leaving plenty for the birds.

Rain is never far away here on the island. I get great pleasure from watching the rain through the open door to the croft, the scent of the green, wet grass in the air, the coolness and stillness of everything, the dampness seeming to hold its breath.

We created an extra, unexpected joy when we built the house. Our galvanised steel guttering gurgles and sings as the rain drains into the downpipes from the roof, a magical sound that I love. Rain can be a healing, nurturing thing.

It’s the small things that stitched together make up contentment.