6th - 12th September: Accepting that my Martha Stewart days are over

What an autumnal week, with weather yoyo-ing from sunshine to rain and back again. It’s still warm, but Humphrey and I were caught in a shower atop a hill this week and began to feel the chill of autumn creep under our coats as we doggedly had our picnic with a view of thick mist.

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The timbre of birdsong in the garden has become wistful, almost melancholy, and we are often treated to the robin’s bittersweet tune in the morning. Less sonorous but perhaps more exciting, is the young owl who has decided to use my bedroom windowsill as a spot from which to practice his midnight screeching. One morning, bleary eyed from lack of sleep, I almost tripped over a lizard on the back doorstep. We’ve also been enjoying clouds of butterflies and happy bees, all congregating on the flowering artichoke heads. I was reprimanded by a couple of people for not harvesting them, but the flowers are extraordinary to look at and they are being thoroughly savoured by pollinators.

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With the temperature cooling, outdoor tasks have to get the blood flowing and stocking up with firewood was a perfect task this week. I spent most of a day sorting and stacking it which is sore but satisfying (though I am not a Nordic-wannabe wood-pile obsessive).

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Our daily meanderings are picking up the pace a bit, too, and taking us further afield. Having a dog gives you the most marvellous excuse to do go for walks, something which I suspect is considered pretty frivolous in the eyes of most real country-folk. I love walking and have done ever since I was a toddler. There is a lovely picture of 3-year-old-me storming off across a field, limbs flapping in opposing directions, and the speed and wobble of my gait causing my oversized bobble hat to lilt at a garish angle. Not much has changed.

Perhaps going for a walk is a luxury for those who have real work to do, but I feel the day isn’t done until I’ve tromped somewhere. Humphrey is not a speed walker like myself and he moderates my pace so I probably notice a lot more with him around. He backtracks and snuffles making sure that every inch of our route has been investigated and sampled (he brings half the hedgerows of the Borders home in his fur). But his short legs and doggy vision deny him the pleasure I value most; far reaching views. Getting out the house for a walk is a chance to reset perspectives and to engage in some uninhibited daydreaming. Watching changing light on the horizon or glimpsing vignettes of hazy hillsides through the trees never fails to transport my thoughts away from the present and into the potential.

This week we did two long walks; one along a section of Dere St between Jedburgh and Oxnam, and the other up the delightfully named Grubbit Law behind Morebattle. Both are historical routes which take you through landscape evocative of another time. Dere Street is lined with sculptural beech trees, each adopting an expressive stance shaped by decades of wind. The road was made a couple of thousand years ago by Romans who were presumably marching into Scotland to see what they could conquer. I wonder if they were met with welcoming views of sunny hills or glowering wintery skies. Though topographically benign, the mood of this soft landscape has a remarkable range.

But as we returned towards Jedburgh, my gaze was seduced away from the horizon by the irresistible sight of bright fruit; blackberries, rosehips, the odd crab apple, as well as some late raspberries and a particularly fecund barberry bush. I imagine the highly disciplined Roman soldiers weren’t allowed to pause on their mission, but I made plenty of stops to taste the autumn and stained my fingers purple.

It does seem to have been a particularly good year for berries and the ones that have been shouting their presence the loudest are rowans. I love their huge bunches of bright red and orange berries and we are lucky to have so many around where we live. Several years ago in a similarly productive autumn, I made Rowan berry jelly from roadside trees and my parents’ crab apple. This year I thought I would create a jelly of more specific provenance and use our own rowans and apples. The romance of this notion was somewhat quashed by the messy reality of harvesting, processing and transforming; an experience which provoked some reflection.

Many years ago when I found myself being a housewife in Seattle - a dark era I now think of as my ‘Martha Stewart phase’ - I had limitless enthusiasm for the domestic art of preserving. I would instigate canning parties, carry heavy crates of summer fruits back from the market, and even drove several hundred miles with a girlfriend to load up the car with peaches and tomatoes from Eastern Washington. At Christmas I would proudly package shining jars of cherries in kirsch or spiced pear butter, as presents. When I left Seattle for the last time, I assessed my possessions and with dubious wisdom felt it necessary to pack 75 Mason jars into my suitcase. Clearly my confidence in an enduring passion for preserving was strong. Sadly, this proved to be mistaken.

The prospect of capturing the flavours of each season to be opened and enjoyed in the depths of winter, is such a lovely one. And I love the notion of honouring the harvest by not wasting an ounce. But the reality is that every utensil, pan and sieve will be used, every surface - including the floor and the dog - will be made sticky, the cook will be red in the face from all the steam, swearing and glasses of wine to calm the nerves, and a shocking amount of energy will be expended. Inevitably some key ingredient is missing, the pot won’t reach temperature in time, or the phone rings at a crucial moment. The result of my endeavour with rowans: a few jars of ‘soft-set’ (read; ‘not-set’) jelly which will be given as gifts and stored politely at the back of someones cupboard to be rediscovered after several years.

I fear that unless I am accompanied by a willing team of choppers, cleaners, washer-upperers and stirrers, the allure of putting up the harvest has waned for me.