87. On the seventh day of Christmas

Continuing my Garden version of the Twelve Days of Christmas, sharing some of my favourite moments over the past year.

On the seventh day of Christmas 

the Garden gave to me:

Seven lilies floating,

Six apples ripening,

Five golden trees,

Four pink blossoms,

Three standing stones,

Two purple orchids,

and a robin in a thorn tree.

86. On the sixth day of Christmas

Continuing my Garden version of the Twelve Days of Christmas, sharing some of my favourite moments over the past year.

On the sixth day of Christmas 

the Garden gave to me:

Six apples ripening,

Five golden trees,

Four pink blossoms,

Three standing stones,

Two purple orchids,

and a robin in a thorn tree.

85. On the fifth day of Christmas

Continuing my Garden version of the Twelve Days of Christmas, sharing some of my favourite moments over the past year.

On the fifth day of Christmas 

the Garden gave to me:

Five golden trees,

Four pink blossoms,

Three standing stones,

Two purple orchids

and a robin in a thorn tree.

84. On the fourth day of Christmas

Continuing my Garden version of the Twelve Days of Christmas, sharing some of my favourite moments over the past year.

On the fourth day of Christmas 

the Garden gave to me:

Four pink blossoms,

Three standing stones,

Two purple orchids,

and a robin in a thorn tree.

83. On the third day of Christmas

Continuing my Garden version of the Twelve Days of Christmas, sharing some of my favourite moments from the past year.

On the third day 
of Christmas 
the Garden gave to me:

Three standing stones,

Two purple orchids,

And a robin in a thorn tree.

82. On the second day of Christmas

Continuing my Garden version of the Twelve Days of Christmas, sharing some of my favourite moments over the past year.

On the second day of Christmas 

the Garden gave to me:

Two purple orchids

and a robin in a thorn tree.

81. On the first day of Christmas

Here is my Brigit's Garden version of the Twelve Days of Christmas, sharing some of my favourite moments over the past year.

On the first day of Christmas
 the Garden gave to me:

a robin in a thorn tree.

80. Solstice rainbow

The rainbow felt like a blessing for the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. Sharp squalls of rain followed each other across the Garden, but in one break the sun came out just long enough to create the rainbow.

As soon as I had taken the photograph I ran down to the sundial and was rewarded by a clear view of the longest shadow of the year cast by the low, low sun. 

For two more days the sun will appear to travel the same path across the sky, and then the resurrection miracle will begin - day by day, inch by inch, the sun will start to climb back towards its summer height and the shadow on the sundial will gradually get shorter again. 

I wish you all peace and joy at this solstice and Christmas time, beautifully expressed in this old Celtic blessing:

May the deep peace of the quiet earth

Be with you now and stay with you; 

May it fill your life and all you do,

Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

79. Floating leaves

Although the sun is shining I can't read the sundial because it is under water. It has become an round, shallow pool after a month's rain fell in two days. In this saturated landscape every low area and dip - including the sundial, the sunken garden and the polytunnel -  is now filled with water. 

The temporary pool is beautiful though, and I enjoy looking at the perfect reflections of the winter trees and blue sky. Then another thought strikes me, that reflections show the world turned upside down, and if this extreme weather is a sign of climate change we will see a lot more of nature being turned topsy-turvey.  

Another reminder that we are of nature, and what we do to the planet we do to ourselves.

78. Deadwood

It was only 4 pm but dusk was falling as I walked into the old woodland. The path was strewn with storm debris: broken bits of rotten branches and lumps of ivy.

December is here. Earth month. Trees sleep, leaves rot back into the soil and all of nature spirals slowly downwards into the dark, quiet earth.

I picked up a damp, half-rotten twig. Paradoxically, deadwood is essential for a healthy, living woodland. Lots of it is needed to provide homes for invertebrates, fungi, lichens and even some birds. Biodiversity needs the dead as well as the living.

A reminder on a grey December afternoon that death and decay are both part of the cycle of life.

 

77. Spindle berries

They look like little red flowers, but this is November. In fact they are empty seed cases from the spindle bush. The cheerful cherry-red stood out from the tapestry of threads left from visitor's wishes in the Bealtaine garden. I picked a small twig and propped it up against a stone, red on grey.

For most of the year the spindle is an undistinguished green bush that no one notices, hiding in the hedgerows. Then, in autumn, it explodes into exotic colour, displaying bright orange berries that clash wonderfully with the crimson cases.

Spindle is so named as the wood was used to make spindles for spinning wool.  Perhaps this bush can spin a moral too, that under every ordinary exterior there is a creative soul ready to burst into colour.

76. The lone apple

Dusk was falling and the Garden was quiet after a stormy week. All the leaves had blown off the apple trees in the Imbolc garden, leaving the branches completely bare - except for one lone, yellow apple.

What an apple, such a survivor! Hanging on and hanging on, regardless of the weather and the changing seasons. 

It made my day.

75. Lichen

From the magnificent..

A day of contrasts. First, walking along a stormy beach leaning against the wind, picking my way over sand littered with seaweed and sea foam, looking out over a wild, misty ocean. 

Later, in the Garden, I walked up the slope to the ring fort and clambered over an old stone wall, sheltered by clumps of hazel and hawthorn. Little wind here, just a gleam of winter sunshine that lit up a miniature tapestry of grey, brown and red; a fairy garden for the fairy fort, grey-green lichen decorated with red hawthorn berries. 

...to the miniature

The lichen had exquisitely-formed, crusty branches that reminded me of seaweed. These strange beings are neither plants nor mosses but symbiotic partnerships of algae and fungi. They are so tough they can live on bare rock and tree bark, creating their own food from air and water, sunlight and minerals. They grow on rocks by the sea too, coping with salt, gales and everything the ocean can throw at them.

There is, however, one thing most of these exceptionally resilient organisms can't cope with: pollution, the toxic products of our modern lifestyles. Healthy lichens mean clean, healthy air, and I am grateful that we have plenty of both on this Atlantic shore.

74. Reflections and shadows

Reflections...

Yesterday the Atlantic threw the first severe gale of the winter at us. It roared across the Garden, dropping heavy rain and whipping most of the remaining leaves off the trees. Eventually the wind eased and the sun came out to reveal a rain-washed landscape shining in the low sun. The remaining breeze was just strong enough to ripple the reflections of the birch trees in the Samhain pond.

... and shadows

I stood up on the earth woman's shoulder to take a photograph of the cleaned, wet Lughnasa circles and noticed my long winter shadow intruding into the frame as if I was another standing stone.

I can't pick up a reflection or a shadow so for once I have no object, just an awareness of the precious, ephemeral moments generated by this ever-changing Atlantic climate.

73. Maple leaf

Today the Garden was grey, misty and damp, the last of the autumn leaves hanging wet and limp. My eye was drawn to the buttery yellow colour of the maple in the Bealtaine garden, which radiated a soft, golden glow in the greyness. 

This tree is a Norway maple. It doesn't provide the bright reds of the American maples, but I love its subtle palette of yellows and ochres.

This time of Samhain is rich in metaphor. The fallen leaves will slowly decompose to make leaf mold, providing compost for the earth. The detritus of the old helps create the fertile soil for the new, and out of decay comes life.

72. Crab apples

The year has turned. A cycle has ended and a new one begins, not with light, but with the gathering darkness that marks the weeks between Samhain and the winter solstice. The Celtic imagination understood that for new growth and new ideas to grow they first have to be dreamed, and that darkness is the place of dreaming. In nature, a plant sends out roots into the dark earth before it can reach upwards to the light.

Samhain is a time for letting go, for endings, for clearing out the old to make way for the new. But it is also a time to take stock of all that has been harvested, of the richness that will sustain and support us as we move on.

I saw the tree heavy with yellow crab apples, little drops of summer fruitfulness packaged to keep birds and animals alive through the dark winter months. They felt like a bridge between the seasons, bringing the sweetness of the old cycle into the one that is just beginning.

71. Granite stone

The sunset today was stunning, with the almost-bare branches of hawthorn and ash silhouetted against a bright orange sky. The clocks have gone back and the early sunset feels like the start of winter. I am struck by how fast the change has been and how stark the leafless trees now appear.

I picked up a granite stone, forged from volcanic magma that was once hot and flaming orange like the sunset, and thought about the elemental forces over billions of years that created planet earth and its orbit around the sun. A humbling thought on a quiet October evening.

70. Fallen birch leaves

My feet led me to the Samhain garden along a path strewn with fallen birch leaves. The season has shifted once more as autumn slips towards winter. I feel the change in myself too, as I finally let go of summer and begin to obey the call to the quieter, more inward-looking time ahead.

The leaf woman on the island is already dreaming, made of the falling leaves and deeply connected to the earth. This exquisite sculpture (by artist Linda Brunker) is, to me, the essence of Samhain, of the Garden preparing for its winter rest.

I gather some leaves, scatter them over her and sit for a while, grateful for this quiet heart of the Garden.

69. Blackberries

The hedgerow harvest is in full swing. Sloes, hazelnuts, hawthorn berries, rose hips and blackberries adorn the jumble of bushes and small trees that make up the rich biodiversity of our native hedgerows.

Evolution has, of course, shaped the attractiveness of the fruit to ensure it is eaten by animals and birds, the seeds passing through the digestive tract to be dispersed to new locations, often with a little starter pack of natural fertilizer.

There is no doubt which hedgerow fruit is most attractive to the human animal. Blackberries are delicious, raw or cooked, and there is the additional pleasure of picking them - searching along the hedges for little gleams of purple-black and getting excited when one finds a particularly good bush full of plump berries.

I'm afraid we didn't help with the seed dispersal, but we had a wonderful dinner.

68. Witch hazel

The long shadows of the standing stones point directly towards a golden bush - the witch hazel is glowing in the late afternoon sun.

Witch hazel is a traditional Native American herb, valued for its astringent and cleansing properties. We planted it in the medicinal bed in the Lughnasa herb garden along with echinacea, evening primrose and many other amazing plants.

Witch hazel is probable best known as the main ingredient in commercial eye lotion, used for tired or dry eyes. I needed no tincture today: it's bright autumn colour was enough to refresh not only my eyes but my full being.