Study of a spray of rosehips, Beatrix Potter (made 1878-79)
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
(Excerpt from Ode to Autumn by John Keats, 1795 -1821)
How well John Keats understood the ripening beauty of autumn. It is mad to think that when this genius wordsmith died, at the young age of 25 leaving a huge body of sublime work, he asked for his grave to be inscribed with: “Here lies one whose name was writ in water”. How surprised would he be that his poetry is still read, taught and admired more than 250 years later?
Studio pressings: Ginkgo Leaf and Copper Beech.
There is a palpable shift in the seasons; dusk falls earlier and there is a chill in the evening air. Despite some glorious Indian summer days, Autumn is upon us. On the 23rd September the sun will illuminate both the northern and southern hemispheres for an equal length of time, known as the Autumn Equinox. The word ‘equinox’ derives from the latin Aequinoctium meaning simply: ‘equal night’.
In the Northern Hemisphere the days will grow swiftly and perceptibly shorter and daylight will continue to diminish until the winter solstice on the 21st December, when night and day seem to merge and stand still as the sun reaches its lowest point. After that the sun will begin to climb again and the seasons, so distinct here in England, will march on, comforting and reassuring.
I remember returning to boarding school in the balmy late summer days, still sun kissed from bucket and spade holidays in the Isle of Wight and realising that the next time I would be home again it would be almost Christmas, the time stretched out interminably and homesickness settled in a gloomy blanket of sadness. I also remember my own children stomping home from the local school, singing tunelessly "Michaelmas Daisies purple in the border, Big fat leeks all standing up in order”……
Michaelmas Daisies, House & Garden.
For as long as man has been on the planet the Autumn Equinox has been the time for us and our fellow creatures to start storing food and provisions for winter. Squirrels gather nuts and forget where they hoarded them. Fruit is bottled, pickled, dried and preserved and the larder groans with delicious winter treats. Harvest has always been a time for feasting and celebrating. Many of the magnificent Tythe barns, centuries old, will have witnessed the time when all the local farm hands gathered to celebrate the harvest. "All is safely gathered in", a feast of baked goods, home cured ham and home brewed ale and cider are responsible for many love affairs which began at the Harvest Lunch, ensuring the long line of men and women who loved and worked the land through all the seasons.
The Autumn Equinox symbolises a time of plenty, but also a time of melancholy. English winters are long and dark. Now is the time to step out and enjoy the country side, take a basket and fill it with delicious plump blackberries and gather great branches of autumn leaves to decorate the home; spindle berries and rosehips, yellow and bronze beech leaves and include some seed heads. It is hard not to make a beautiful autumnal arrangement. For the past couple of years I have done this with my nephew’s children.The trees around their Hampshire house seem to be especially spectacular at this time of year.
There is a great beauty in the dying of the light, marvellous sunsets illuminate the skies at night, bracken turns fiery orange, leaves crunch underfoot and the Apple Store of my childhood is, in my imagination, full again with the sweet scent of ripening fruit. Fires are lit at night, but the sun still holds its warmth in the daytime. Occasional thunderstorms and bolts of lightening precede drenching rain. The parks begin to turn green again.
My garden is ablaze with dahlias, salvia and Japanese anemones. Grasses have begun to flower and unpruned roses begin to form into beautiful hips. This year I have stuck with one type of dahlia called "Happy Single Kiss" – a delicious single “Bishop” dahlia from Sarah Raven, its almost black leaves and open apricot starry face fills me with joy every day. The lazy sound of fat buzzing bees who have flown in through the open windows and can't find their way out again. Enormous moths appear at night irresistibly drawn to the light. Butterflies flutter, lazily waltzing in pairs in the last warmth of the sun.
Dahlia 'Happy Single Kiss' growing in my garden.
Along the telephone wires thousands of house martins and swallows line up, twittering and chattering as they prepare for their long journey south. I wonder where they gathered before the invention of the telephone? The swifts have already flown. We saw them in Greece dipping elegantly on their rapid wings to take little sips from the swimming pool.
Across the world the formations of birds following ancient routes fly south. Sadly they often encounter cruel traps in Cyprus and Italy, where hunters take these tiny courageous creatures and turn them into one bite morsels. The most despicable of all being the capture of the tiny Ortolan, who was a such a prized culinary treat in France that it is now in danger of extinction. As they followed ancestral flight paths they were first netted, then fattened up, then drowned in armagnac before being roasted and eaten entire. The epicurean would hide their head under a vast monogrammed linen napkin some say so the spitting out of tiny bones and beaks was modestly hidden, and others say they covered their heads for fear of God seeing their heinous gluttony. A deadly sin.
As Harper Lee reminds us through her character Atticus Finch: “it’s a sin to kill a mocking bird”. I would go further and say it is a sin to kill any living thing and most especially wicked to kill our little song birds. Follow the work of @cabs_reports on instagram, it’s certainly not a jolly account, but reminds one of the futility of man's inhumanity to the creatures which share our wonderful planet with us. Just because your grandfather and his grandfather before him behaved in a certain way, it is not your right to kill for sport or greed. As Yeats reminds us: “a Robin red breast in a cage, puts all heaven in a rage”. Carpe Diem. These conker rich days, the last of the freckled autumn roses, are to be savoured and enjoyed.
Autumn Fairies, Arthur Rackham (1867-1939)
Back at the studio we are cleaning up our archived pressings. It’s a dull and sneezy chore, but it feels good when it is done. Throwing out broken and discoloured flowers and reorganising them on acid free paper with tiny strips of masking tape is pleasing. During our explorations we find magical half forgotten pressings, ready to be made up into beautiful original pressed flower artworks. Exquisite shapes against a background of rich autumnal colours. This season we are all about simplicity, composition and a monochromatic pallet. Keep an eye out for new framed pressed flower artworks coming soon, each one is unique and you wouldn’t want to miss out.
Studio pressings: Bryony Vine; Cooper's Tree Fern
If you would like to learn more about how to press flowers, our process for maintaining, archiving and storing pressed flowers, or if you would like advice and inspiration for making your own pressed flower artworks - our autumn workshop dates are now online.
Written by Melissa Richardson.