Hello there and welcome to Slow Into the Seasons, a place of heartfelt words from a quieter life…
Today I want to share with you two pieces of writing ten years apart. Upon reflection, it seems the melancholy of autumn has always captured my heart!
First, I bring you to where me and my family currently find ourselves, snuggled up in a little cabin on a croft in the Highlands of Scotland. This poem was written just the other day as I sat looking out of my window across an autumnal-turning glen…
Early October (2024)
The trees are tinged with yellow and orange
It happened quickly before my eyes
And I cannot halt my melancholy
For all the ways that nature dies.
And yet, after the predictable thud
I gather myself up
Amongst the crisp leaves and golden hues
And see the opportunity to start anew.
To sink into the softness of this season
To be held, where summer set me free
And in the defused light and cooler air
(Re)connect with all the gifts bestowed upon me.
I hope you enjoyed this poem and before I head back ten years if you, too, enjoy reminders and inspiration for how to connect with this sometimes melancholy season, then I would love to invite you to sign up as a Slow Friend:
And now to a time back in 2014 when I had just concluded—along with my little family—a trip through England in our narrowboat home.
Autumnal Air - Mid-September 2014
From my narrowboat living room on this early evening of early autumn, I look out through my open door to a sky that merges seamlessly from cobalt blue at the top through to lighter blues, pale creams, yellows, oranges and finally deep red just above the darkened tree line. Geese fly in formation across the scene, their honking therapeutic in the otherwise still drawing in of night. The long narrow strip of water stretches out ahead of the bow and its quiet inky ripples reflect on my ceiling… wavering, wandering lights.
I wonder how many more evenings there will be like this, how much longer before we descend into the full darkness of winter. Already as I walk along the towpath to collect drinking water I catch the occasional drift of a wood-burner coughing and spluttering its way out of hibernation and forming streams of grey-black smoke across the canal. There is something comforting about this departure from those afternoons spent lounging on the roof of the boat as we drifted along the cut during the long hazy summer. Perhaps it is the realisation that we can now begin to retreat inside – without question or explanation – to rest and recharge our jittery souls. And yet there is too, a sense of melancholy in the air.
Everyone talks of the autumnal turn and I want to stick my fingers in my ears and shout ‘la la la la laaaa’. I want to ignore it, believe it’s not happening – not yet – I don’t think I’m quite ready to relinquish summer. My toes are not ready to be tucked back into boots, for they have so enjoyed the air and freedom. And yet if I squint I too cannot fail to see the green leaves that are somehow tinged with orange, nor ignore the hedgerows transformed almost overnight. Flowers have all but died away and instead berries are abundant in all shades of deep red, orange and purple and so, in my melancholy, I turn my tiny boat kitchen into a hive of concoctions to stave off the coming winter colds. Elderberry, blackberry and rose hips hang overnight in jelly bags ready to be made into soothing syrups and deep inside I begin to feel hints of joy for this season as I smile at our faces and fingers smeared with tell-tail purple smudges, our hands and arms dutifully scratched.
But some days I catch my heart as it mourns sorrowfully for the beginning of summer, for spring even – my favourite season. The season that brings those occasional long warm days with baby blue skies that tell us ‘the length of summer is yet to come’. Now those same occasional hazy days must be grasped at with hunger for they remind us that soon they will be gone for a long while. So grasp at them we do: rising with happiness, wandering freely, packing up picnics and soaking up every.last.drop.of.warmth and as I lie back on the brow of a hill I reminisce about my summer spent wandering by narrowboat and feel glad for our time together as a family.
Time to wander along untouched towpaths where wild flowers and grasses grew in abundance, where we were able to crouch down within them and become better acquainted, ‘why, pleased to meet you Meadowsweet and Timothy’… Time to rest in the cool shade of dappled woodlands listening to woodpeckers, feeling spongy moss beneath our fingertips and feet. I remember mooring up to buy from the ice cream boat and how we sat on the back deck devouring and savouring every small cool mouthful beneath a burning sun. I think of waiting in queues at busy boat junctions, breasting up to other boats, waiting our turn through the lock, passing the time of day through side-hatches and buying handmade wooden bookmarks from a traditional toy maker as I did so. I remember the nature reserves where we sat in peace and the many locks we turned in the heat… and in the rain. The conversations that drifted as I wound paddles up and down now fill my mind, with one in particular sticking around.
It was just a brief five minutes with a stranger as we worked our boats in opposite directions and yet even now it reminds me of how short life is. That conversation with a mother who had just recently endured the passing of her adult daughter affected me so deeply that tears pricked my eyes as I walked the towpath continuing on my journey, her words ringing in my ears: ‘Never be afraid of change. Evolve, take chances and pay no to heed to what anyone else may say, think or believe’.
I think of the ‘Country Wines’ boat, their hedgerow creations crowding their deck, the chat we shared, the wine we bought – and then drank on a peaceful still evening as swallows swooped ahead, back when my heart wavered with joy knowing they were only just arriving. This evening I watch them swoop low to the water and somehow my heart sinks with the knowledge that soon they will leave.
On a more recent autumnal morning I stare out of a different window; my writing window. Lily pads litter the water that flows, rippling and moving, and I become aware at how different this is from the usual still canal days we have come to know in recent weeks. Reeds shoot up ahead of me waving in the wind, interlaced with the ever-disappearing pink blooms of Great Willowherb. Tufts of grasses offer a brown hue, pond skaters and dragonflies dart about and as two ducks peacefully float around in this little corner of the world I suddenly feel overcome with joy and wish I could bottle it: this feeling, this appreciation, this ‘in the moment’ of life.
Some days — in the rush of home education meet-ups, work commitments, activities and goings-on — it’s easy to forget to do this and so I am thankful that in this wandering floating home there are so many windows and (still) open doors, that I am unable to ignore the ever-changing nature that spills in – invited or not – and makes me sit up and take notice.
Thank you for listening/reading and I hope to see you next week for Five Days of Autumn where we get to explore and share our own experiences of this season.
With love,
Alice
🧡🙏🏻🍂
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