September

THE HARVEST MOON HANGS LOW to the horizon, round and bright as an orange. Beechmast pops like firecrackers in the beech tree – home in spring to a pair of tawny owls and a single fluffy fledgling – shedding its load on the grass.

The beechnuts are tiny and sweet, food for the squirrels and the smaller residents of the overgrown thorn hedge that separates the worked part of garden from the wildwood. The worked garden – its name an indication of intent rather than reality – is distinguished from the woodland garden and the wildwood by an area of mossy lawn rimmed with flowerbeds whose exuberance in a good year owes more to nature than nurture. Nevertheless, even for a gardener such as I – content to concede defeat at the drop of a sunhat – there’s tidying up to be done before winter takes hold.