Raining again, got up late and looking out of the window saw that we have a moorhen on the pond. It is a while since we have had such a visitor.
Then again we have a grey squirrel on the feeders and that is a regular occurrence. Yesterday one demolished a seed feeder and left in in fragments on the ground.
I have been into the garden between showers (and prolonged rain) and trimmed the beech hedge. It had grown so tall I could hardly reach the top. I had plans for it to arch over the path to the far garden but that would have meant me trimming standing precariously on a ladder so I have ditched that. As one decrepifies (new word for the OED) balance deteriorates and, no doubt, I would, sooner or later, plummet to the ground.
Having ranted about the rain we have had sun too, occasionally.
It lights up the autumn colours like this Hamamelis under the big sycamore.
Colour is everywhere.
I had thought the visit by the moorhen would be fleeting but it seems to have taken up
We have bought a special device looking like a giant bottle brush on an extending handle to try and extract some of the algae from the pond. I tried it but the rake, albeit with a short handle, seems better. Also whilst there I put up a jack snipe from the ditch.
We have white fly everywhere in the living room - comes of bringing in tender house plants that have been outside for the summer. The abutilon will have to be treated and then we pray - but they multiply - I was going to say like rabbits but rabbits have nothing on whitefly - like bacteria might be nearer
The horseradish that is supposed to be variegated has, in part, reverted so I will need to dig up the gone all green bit and use the root - that will make my eyes water. Onions have nothing on horseradish. And the nasturtiums get everywhere.
Annabelle is still in full flower except when it rains and she collapses onto the ground. The hydrangeas have been marvellous this year.
So, Monday, still in the season of mists and mellow KEATS stuff - today foggy early on and now sun, and warm, and 61F 16C, and it is November! I must be a close-bosom friend of the maturing sun?
(see the poem.)