November

THE RUN-UP TO CHRISTMAS – forty days of abstinence for those who follow the old rules of fast before feast – was a time for reflection, when mealtimes were a lean affair, allowing the household a chance to stock the larder against the extravagance of the midwinter feast.

At Brynmerheryn the blue tits are stocking up with the oil they need to keep themselves warm by pecking out the fresh putty on my newly replaced window frames. In an attempt to divert their attention, I set out the last of the little grapes from the glass passage, now withered to raisins on the vine. In the woodland a flock of waxwings descends in a rosy cloud to strip out the remains of the crab apple crop, and while I have no quarrel with the birds when they help themselves to the berries in the garden, since I plant as much for their benefit as my own, I remember to cut a few branches of berry-bearing holly to set aside for the Christmas wreath. While the birds will eat everything else that fruits or seeds, they leave the medlars untouched. Perhaps the skins are too tough or the flesh too bitter for their taste.