We've been blattered by gusting winds and heavy blustery rainfall this week, as the characteristically tight isobars move their way eastwards across the UK. Just as well I've channelled my usual grief over Mercy Boo's return to uni, into laundering all the bedding then storing the summer weight gear into cupboards and replacing it with winter weight gorgeousness. I love my winter fabrics. Fabulously soft woollen throws and tartan blankets some with the colours of purple heathers and winter landscapes, reappear over sofas and armchairs, over the end of the beds and draped two or three at a time over the brass bedsteads.
I'd really like to complete this image for my charming, witty and urbane readers by adding I changed the curtains from summer weight silks to thicker, heavier fabrics, but quite frankly the thermal blackout curtains hang on the back of my silk curtains all year round.
House warm (and tidy), I've been up early and out into the world, returning late in the afternoon as the sun starts to set. This evening I got home early, just before six, in time for a phone call from Beloved Firstborn. "Isn't this the most beautiful sunset? Have you got orange clouds too?" I stepped out into the kitchen garden and chatted about his day, and noticed the Acer palmatum had quietly turned from green to crimson. Still chatting, I dragged the Acer in its pot towards the centre of the garden where I would see it each afternoon, then went on a tour of the beds.
The Warwickshire Drooper lost many of its plums during this week to the high winds, and as I stopped to examine it I noticed the slight, then intoxicating smell of slowly rotting and fermenting drupes. Thank goodness I've already made a couple of years worth of Delia Smith's spiced plum / spiced damson chutney. Recipe to follow.