Out at first light after the last of the hen-of-the-woods (identified properly, triple-checked, field guide in pocket as always). The fog was so thick I could only see three oaks ahead.
Then I heard breathing that wasn't mine. A stag, maybe twelve feet off the path, standing so still he looked carved. Neither of us moved for what felt like an hour and was probably forty seconds. Steam rising off his back.
He didn't bolt. He just turned and walked into the white like he was going home. I left an apple on the stump where he'd stood and said thank you out loud, to him and to whatever else was keeping the woods that morning.
A hag stone, asked for
Found my first hag stone on Saturday: a flint pebble with a hole worn clean through it by the water, sitting on a gravel bar like it had been waiting. Old folk wisdom says if you look through one you can see the hidden folk, or at least see things as they really are.
I asked before I picked it up. I know how that sounds. But I have a rule about taking from the land: ask, wait, leave something. I left a few oat flakes and a promise to carry out the litter I'd passed on the way (two crisp packets and one very sad flip-flop).
I'd rather have one stone from my own river than a bag of something shipped across the world. Local stones know the local weather.
Rosehip syrup and itchy fingers
The dog roses along the lane are heavy with hips, so the kitchen is a sticky mess this weekend. Rosehip syrup the way my Nain made it in the war years: top and tail a kilo of hips, chop them, drop them into boiling water and simmer, then strain twice through a jelly bag. Twice. The little hairs inside are why we called them itching powder at school, and you do not want them in your syrup.
Sugar into the strained juice, a short boil, then into sterilised bottles. Leave plenty of hips on the bush for the blackbirds and the fieldfares coming in for winter.
A spoonful on porridge in February tastes exactly like this lane in October. That's the whole spell.
Blackberry cordial before the púca gets them
In Ireland you're told never to pick blackberries after Samhain, because the púca goes round and spits on every last one. My gran put it a little more rudely than that. So the last weekend in September is cordial weekend in this house.
Two big bowls of berries from the ditch at the end of the road (above dog height, always), a splash of water, simmered soft and mashed with a wooden spoon. Strained overnight through muslin, then sugar and the juice of a lemon, brought to the boil and bottled. A dash in sparkling water by the fire in January is a whole summer, saved.
The first glass gets poured out under the hawthorn for the good people. Best to stay on their side.