It has been a very long time since I last experienced autumn. Almost 30 years, in fact. Once, when my son was very little, we met my parents for a “Fall in New England” holiday. He had a wonderful time scrunching through huge drifts of fallen leaves, though he wasn’t overly keen on all of the layers of clothes that were required. At a guess, that was 1995 and, in my book, a week of playing tourist doesn’t exactly constitute experiencing autumn in all her glory.
So this year has been interesting. I have had the opportunity to see the incremental changes, and daily walks along the river bank have meant that I’ve been close enough to catch some of the finer details, like realising that the edges of leaves were beginning to be tinged with yellow. And learned when the weather conditions have been good enough for a new batch of mushrooms to appear. I’ve foraged for sloes, apples, pears, plums, quince and blackberries. Friends invited me to pick fruit from their trees too. These budget buddies have been turned into chutney, and I’ve tried my hand at making jellies and membrillo too and the cupboard stocked for Christmas and beyond.
In the months that I’ve been walking various routes around the area close to Les Terraces I’ve met lots of people. One of them is an elderly gentleman who lives at the end of a vineyard. He has a garden full of fruit and veggies that are interplanted with marigolds and other flowers. The other day I ws walking home and saw this:
As I crouched down to photograph the grafitti’d pumpkin its owner emerged through his gate. We “Bonjour”d and I asked him about the carving. He explained that it has become a tradition. Every year his grandchildren engrave the names of every member of the family into the fruit in his pumpkin patch and, when they’ve exhausted the family names, those of their best friends follow.
A few minutes later, two young ones came charging through the gate, hot on the heels of a bouncy, friendly dog. The younger child was the owner of the name appears at the bottom of the potiron above, and his sister – Emma (I assumed). As the children played their grandfather and I talked about how glorious the autumn has been, and how quickly the vines succumb to winter. And, suddenly, we’re walking up a run of vines and talking about the magical scent of the tiny, tiny flowers at the beginning of the summer, their perfume filling the evening air. He pulled at a recently denuded plant, showing me the tendrils that I have seen made into folk-jewelry called “caprices des vignes”. He said that in the evenings the vines “dance”, snaking around until a tendril can grasp at something and take hold. Clearly I am going to have to spend an evening sat quietly listening, watching, and savouring the scent of the vines (and the taste of an earlier year’s vendage too).
A few more pictures, taken yesterday on the road home from Libourne:
