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A wren sang from the hedge I've been laying all week, the moment I bent down the last pleacher. In Welsh, dryw means both wren and druid. I'm taking it as a review.

Same oak, same root, same muddy patch on the seat of my waterproof trousers. Forty weeks now of sitting here every Sunday for twenty minutes, counting birdsong. Today: robin, wren, two jackdaws arguing, a buzzard mewing far off, and a thin high song I didn't know until the app named it a goldcrest, which made me unreasonably happy. At the end I intone the awen three times, quietly, because there's a dog walker who already thinks I'm odd. I don't sit to get anything. I sit so the wood gets used to me. I think it's starting to.

Asking the hedge first

Hedge-laying season has started, which means three months of mud, hazel stakes and the good kind of sore shoulders. Before the first cut on any new stretch, I do the same small thing: hand flat on the oldest stem, three slow Awens, and a plain request out loud to lay it well and let it grow back thicker. A splash of water from my flask at the roots and a "diolch" to the hawthorn. No robes, no audience, just me and a nosy robin. A laid hedge isn't killed, it's renewed. The cut stems keep living and send up new growth all along the line. Every winter I'm reminded that most of the good things in my life came from something being bent, not broken.

Three staves for the turning year

I cut my ogham set from fallen hazel years ago, twenty staves, each with its notches burned in. Every autumn I draw three: what to let fall, what to keep through the winter, what to plant in spring. This year: Beith (birch, beginnings) to let fall, which made me laugh, because I've been starting new projects compulsively. Coll (hazel, wisdom) to keep. And Ailm (pine or fir, depending on who you ask) for spring: clear sight, the long view. So: fewer beginnings, more finishing, and a long look ahead. The trees are blunt when they want to be. Back to my half-laid hedge, which I'm going to finish before I start anything else. Probably.

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.

Alban Elfed on a wet hill

Alban Elfed with the grove: seven of us on the hill above the village, in what the forecast called 'light drizzle' and what my socks called a betrayal. We stood in the circle at the point of balance, day and night equal, and gave thanks for the second harvest. Bread from the village bakery, blackberries from the lane, and a flask of spiced apple juice passed hand to hand. Somebody's dog ate a fair portion of the offerings and we agreed that counted. The best part came after, walking down. The cloud broke for about forty seconds and the whole valley lit up silver. Nobody said anything. We didn't need to.