Hello everyone and happy weekend! Just before you start reading, we wanted to let you know that this month the format of The Seasonal Supplement looks a little different. It’s been just over a year since we started writing these so we thought it could do with a bit of a refresh!
The new look supplement will now be a place for the snippets from our journal that don’t make it into longer writing pieces. A monthly gathering of short stories; simple, joyful (occasionally fleeting) moments; cooking notes; rustic recipes; and, of course, photographs. Together we hope they will give you a seasonal glimpse into life here on our smallholding in the hills of rural Somerset, England. We hope you like it. Do let us know in the comments.
Glowing Leaves and New Words
Thursday 9 November
A mid-afternoon car journey as the sun begins to drop behind the hills. We brum along curving country roads that split a patchwork of hedgerows, farms, and fields. Driving in one direction the setting light is blinding. But turn a corner and the bright beams move behind the leaves of oak and beech trees that punctuate the landscape, setting them aglow.
Unlike most of the other deciduous trees, oak and beech (along with hornbeam and some willows) like to cling onto most of their foliage right into spring if they can. At the moment their leaves are still turning through the autumn colour palette. A gold-hued mix of tan, green, and yellow. They look truly stunning.
After speculating on why the leaves hold on for so long, we did a snipsy bit of research when we got home. The answer, it seems, is a mystery (although there are many theories), but we came away from our Google search with two, rather lovely, new words in our vocabulary:
marcescence: when parts – most commonly the leaves – of some plants and trees have withered and faded, but remain attached
everciduous: a term used to describe trees that exhibit marcescence
Apples and Cobblestones
Saturday 11 November
A trip to the market today. Tented stalls balanced on cobblestones line the wide space just outside the walls of the old Cathedral. We meander slowly amongst the crowds, past regional cheeses, steaming piles of stir-fried noodles, pots of honey, bargain books, and paper-wrapped flowers, to the fruit and veg stand, which is selling a variety of locally grown apples. Teetering piles of Spartan, Egremont Russett, Bramley, Kidd’s Orange Red, and Cox’s Orange Pippin. Apples we know well. But there were other varieties too, including two that we’ve been wanting to taste test for a while: Adam’s Pearmain and Red Pippin. We excitedly buy a couple of each variety to try. Back home, we get out knife and saucer and sample them both:
Adam’s Pearmain is a smallish, unusually conically shaped apple that was incredibly popular during the Edwardian and Victorian times. Back then it regularly adorned the window displays of London-based fruiterers. Rather than the crisp, juicy finish that typically graces the supermarket apples of choice, this apple has drier, powderier flesh, but tastes lovely: complex, slightly nutty, and with good balance of sweetness and acidity. For a long time, we had wondered whether it would be a good addition to our own orchard, but having now tried it, we can see its flavour is extremely similar to another (mystery) tree that we already have growing, so we decide not to add it to our list.
Red Pippin is a much more modern apple from the 1970s, perhaps more commonly known as Fiesta, that is known for its ability to both crop and store well, which makes it a good option for the commercial grower. We had read that its flavour is similar to one of its parent trees: the Cox’s Orange Pippin. But the apples we tried today came nowhere close to the wonderfully deep and complex apple tones that epitomise a classic COP, so it doesn’t make the list either. Nevertheless, it’s good to cross it off and satisfy our wondering. There are around 2,500 varieties of apple to try in the UK (and over 7,000 worldwide), so we have but scratched the surface today. There are plenty more to seek out. We’re on a quest to try them all.
The Heron
Wednesday 15 November
We arrive home to find the grey heron quietly fishing by the stream edges. He comes mainly for the tiny brown trout who swim here, but no frog or vole that lives by the waterside is safe either if they catch his attention. There are just a few precious minutes of watching before we are spotted, and the heron takes flight. Slow, steady wing beats lift him skywards. The geese announce his departure with loud honks as he soars off into the distance and is lost amongst clouds and hilltops.
New Neighbours
Friday 17 November
A flock of sheep have moved into the field next door. The space they are grazing is vast. It disappears over the hill and out of eyeshot. But the sheep seem to like the corner of the field nearest us best. Here there is a mound from which to survey the view, a hedge to nibble, and tree cover for shelter when the weather closes in. We glimpse them often, framed by the branches of the old oak, the woodstores, and the compost heap. Occasionally, we hear them exchanging curious baas across the orchard with our own woolly gang.
Tucking up the Asparagus
Sunday 19 November
We haven’t been outside as much as we’d like this week. Shorter days, bad weather, indoor priorities, and a busy schedule have taken us away from the fresh air and soil. Getting our hands muddy, even if just for half an hour, always helps shake off that stuffy, squiffy feeling that builds up when too much time is spent inside. So, we decide to head out into the buffeting winds to tidy the vegetable patch.
The gales are whipping at the branches of the silver birch trees and tossing the last of their leaves into the air. They flutter and swirl around us before coming to rest amongst the raised beds. We zip coats up to chins and get started.
Spent, slimy courgette and squash plants are lifted and barrowed to the compost heap, along with a ball-like tangle of sweet pea tendrils. Underneath them we discover a slightly leggy, but otherwise happily leafy clump of curly parsley (planted out back in spring and forgotten). Broken stems of magenta orache are pulled up. We pocket the seeds and toss the stalks. Networks of creeping buttercup, with their well-anchored roots, are dug out with a hand-fork.
The asparagus foliage, which retained its colour for longer than usual this year, has finally crisped and browned. We cut the leafy spears back to the ground. Baby nettles, dandelions, hairy bittercress, and alpine strawberries have sneakily sown themselves under the brush-like stems. We gently pull the weeds out and relocate the strawbs. Asparagus plants dislike competition of any kind and we don’t want to risk ruffling their feathery fronds. Next, a little of the rich compost from the wormery is sprinkled over the bed, and then we cover it with fallen leaves scooped up from the driveway pebbles. An autumnal duvet to tuck the bed up until the first asparagus spears peep through the ground next spring.
Tree Cabbage
Tuesday 21 November
The tree cabbage has recovered from the summer caterpillar attack. Lots of new, lush lettuce-green leaves on thick stems are appearing. We’ve grown tree cabbage (Asturian Tree Cabbage, to give it its full name) here for a few years now. It’s a hardy plant, as brassicas so often are, and it happily grows and produces cut-and-come again leaves (which taste similar to spring cabbage) for at least a couple of years before it starts looking tired and needs replacing. As it matures, it develops an increasingly woody trunk with numerous branches laden with edible leaves, hence its name. Today, there are just enough leaves for dinner.
In the kitchen we put a stock pot on the hob, heat some oil, and gently sizzle a couple of cloves of garlic. We twist the lid on a jar of roasted tomato passata from the store cupboard, retrieve a tub of courgettes from the freezer, and tip both into the pan, along with a handful of fresh butterbeans (the last of the year from the garden canes), and a crumbling of dried oregano. We leave everything to simmer until the vegetables are tender and the sauce has thickened, then throw in the tree cabbage leaves, finely shredded, and cook for a few minutes more. A generous pinch of smoked salt and a grinding of pepper to finish, and then it is ladled into deep bowls to eat with buttered bread. A fifteen-minute meal for a cold November night.
Bottling Cider
Wednesday 22 November
It’s late evening. We have spent the last hour carefully decanting demi-johns of cider into jugs and pouring the jugs into funnel-topped brown glass bottles, because the new siphon won’t work. It seems we bought the wrong kind of siphon. We could order a replacement, but by the time it arrives, the cider will have begun to transform into vinegar, which wasn’t the plan, so we work with what we have. The floor tiles are sloshed with fermented juice. We do our best not to pad it all over the kitchen while we work but fail miserably. There are cider footprints everywhere. Eventually we get all the bottles capped, labelled in hastily scribbled chalk pen, and lined up in a cupboard. The kettle goes on and the floor is mopped. Once the tiles have dried, they look brighter. Sparkly even. It turns out that the 2023 vintage scrumpy is a remarkably good floor cleaner. Let’s hope it tastes as good as it cleans.
Tree Hay
Thursday 23 November
Making tree hay is an ancient farming technique. It simply involves gathering huge bundles of leaves and twigs from mature trees (and perhaps some plants) during the summer, tying them up, and drying them to use as fodder for animals in winter. It is a practice that has been largely lost in these days of modern agriculture, but this year we decided to give it a go. Back at the end of summer we gathered huge bundles of willow, hazel, beech, hornbeam, nettles, and alder; bound them tightly together with recycled yellow string; and hung them to dry. It is now that these crispy packages come into their own as a sustainable, nutritious, and free source of food that supplements the grass hay, which we buy in from a local farm. We give the sheep the first lot of tree hay today and they munch it happily. We make a mental note to double our efforts next year.
Cold Snap
Friday 24 November
The weather forecast predicts frost. So, in the last hour before night falls, we head to the garden to hunker it down. The moon is out already, ivory against an icy blue sky. Brassica netting is lifted, rolled up, and tucked away. Terracotta pots are moved into sheds and sheltered spots. The mouser cats are given an extra blanket in their cubby hole. Fleece is rolled out over sections of the vegetable patch and weighted down with stones. And the remaining strawflowers are cut and put in a vase on the kitchen table. We go inside, warm hands and toes by the fire, and wait.
The first frost
Saturday 25 November
We open the curtains to see the land outside sparkling with ice crystals and morning sunshine. The first frost of the season. It feels like the perfect way to draw November to a close.
We really hope you enjoyed reading The Seasonal Supplement. If you’re interested in hearing more of the stories, projects, and recipes from our countryside smallholding, and you’d like to support our writing and photography here, you might like to consider becoming one of our paid subscribers. Our paid subscribers receive weekly emails on a joyful hotchpotch of topics centred around slow food and slow living (full details are on our about page). When you sign-up, you’ll gain access to our full archive of articles (there are tens of thousands of words there already to read at your leisure – enough to fill a small book).
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Thanks so much for reading and have a wonderful rest of your weekend.
Kathy and Tom
That was a lovely read... days of November that have passed not unlike my own. My garden is ready for winter just in time here, at 6am this morning my thermometer on the terrace, so relatively protected, read -5c and I could certainly feel it!
We lost our Cox’s Orange Pippin tree two years ago to the drought and I’m reluctant to go through the heartbreak again so the spot where it grew remains bare but my neighbour has just given me a very healthy Renne Claude plum which is far less likely to perish so I think I will plant that instead... not the same as the COP but still a favorite.
Thank you for sharing your little joys...
Have a peaceful Sunday 🍂
Good morning from a chilly Northamptonshire, I’ve just reread your post and I’m enjoying the new format for its ability to offer a snap of your week, I love the new words too, thank you for those! Have a great week.