Late Summer - To The Trees Edition #67

As the last sips of Summer’s heat rises it is kissed by the cool lips of the lunging fall. The view over Avalon becomes less floral and foliaged and all the more fruited and fungal.

The late Summer leaves start to clatter, dry, tired, and torn from a long season spent bathing in the light. Many trees have dropped leaves early due to a lack of water, while others seem to have been gently touched by the first creeping wisps of autumn which will eventually stifle summer entirely.

It’s a beautiful time of year, as the sun starts to wind down its sail and sink into a more subtle arc, the season’s bounty still hangs ripening in the rows. The heated churn of long days is interrupted by cooler swathes that provide a welcome relief.

The gentle evening chills I have felt upon the backs of my arms, the lengthening shadows and the shortening evenings are welcome after such an ample dose of summer, and the downpours that now beset us bring all important moisture to the cracked earth. Rather than the usual uncomfortable descent into autumn following a less than satiating season, this autumn’s approach feels necessary as a remedy to excess heat and I feel massaged into contentment by the promise of cooler days.

On the land, there are nuts and fruits of all sorts, everywhere, squelching and cracking underfoot. Great mounds of oak mast gathered in the lane sides and gutters, now washed downhill by the sky rivers. Outside the Abbey one of the oaks which overhangs the wall has dropped its mast all over Magdalene Street, making quite a mess. There are streams of beech nuts dangling and haws plumper than I have ever seen, ripened perfectly in the sun and then given a good soaking by the recent deluge. And that’s not to mention the orchards. This season is a pleasure to behold, the climax to the symphony that Spring began, way back when.

Ash begins to litter the lanes with those leaves now too weak to weather the fresh breath of Autumn’s approach, or else knocked of branches by the hammering stair rods. The clatter of rain and persistent gusts send the weakest leaves on their way, while the others remain holding on tight, awaiting a further push of colder weather and yet stronger gusts before they take a dive. The birch trees sparkle with the odd golden leaf here and there, again this may be caused by drought rather than Autumn, while beech leaves begin to curl and crisp at the edges. The oaks of Stone down, for the most part, hold steady, except one. Always the first to autumn is the Wiggly oak, an anomalous pollard whose leaves always turn green-gold a long time before all other oaks. I think the tree struggles with its position on a steep drop into a busy lane, and on the other side a regular haunt of the herds. Drought has also affected it this year causing it to turn even earlier.

Like all the other oaks in the vicinity the wiggly one has had a mast year, producing many acorns, but in contrast to the other oaks, many of the acorns on the wiggly oak are of a cute and miniature size.

The beech trees too seem to have had a mast year, their bristly husks shower from the heavens and as we gaze up through the canopy we are at risk of a pelting from the squirrels. Some make it to the ground un-nibbled, little bristly cocoons housing two beautiful brown nuts in a velvety lined casing. I like to place the closed ones in my pocket only to discover the next day that they have turned inside out and revealed their treasures like a tiny velvet lined jewellery box.

The seeds are then distributed by hand while the casing remains in my pocket for the purpose of momentary fiddling. So soft is the inner lining of the beech nut husk that it is impossible to resist a gentle stroke intermittently with the tip of a finger and I wonder if this aesthetic perfection is by design, irresistible to humans who insist on picking up the treasures, and in doing so, transporting the seeds to other locations, the more beautiful the nuts, the more likely they are to be picked up. Selecting for beauty!

The nuts grown by the beech trees on Bushy Combe are particularly pleasant, they are smaller and open flat like little golden butterflies, they can be placed upon the moss at the base of their parent tree and appear like a flock of little beech angels making their way back up into the canopy.

Recent excursions have taken me on adventures far and wide across the Isle of Avalon, including a special time upon Chalice Hill, guided by Jamie and Leo, to visit the veteran oaks and take in the views to the other hills of Avalon. It’s an absolute privilege to stand central upon the protected belly of the isle and gaze at the Tor in all its glory.

Upon paradise lane, there stands a pair of pines upon which a pair of ravens construct their lair. I often sit in the field below their perch singing songs, waiting for them to arrive home from their corvidian adventures, or else hurrying back to initiate dog fights with the circling buzzards who threaten to raid the nest. A cackle of jackdaws signals their arrival, as the two bird shaped shadows swoop to their perch.

I set an intention earlier in the summer that I would collect a raven feather. I knew exactly where to look, in the field beneath their nest. As I poked around on the ground, finding a small one and a couple of larger ropey ones, the ravens returned. I stood gawping upward to watch them land, and then, a few seconds later, a black feather floated out of the pine tree, perfectly preened and unbroken, all the way to the ground. I said thank you and went to collect it while the ravens croaked. It would appear as if they knew what I was looking for!

In other adventures, a recent lunch break walk in the Abbey led me to visit the yew on the wall to make some art with the fallen arils. If I were forced to pick a favourite tree, it would be the yew. I love it for its cultural depth and heritage, for its physical beauty, and for its ability to remain alive, for its connection to death and the transition from here to there, and many other things besides.

At this time of the year, the yews are at their finest, draped in new growth and plumping their translucent red berries. The yew on the wall at Glastonbury Abbey is currently laden with ‘berries’, while the sun, peaking between the ruined arches, makes glowing red bulbs of those it touches. I couldn’t resist but gather a handful from the floor and start to order them. I love how they appear to be little devotees paying homage to their yew God, their location next to the nave of the Abbey lending this metaphor even more weight.

Arils have a few features which makes this process more of a challenge than one might first guess. Their delicate skins are easily split to release their sticky innards, which insists on gripping to anything it touches: fingers, other arils, yew needles, and dirt, making their placement very tricky. Their little yellow hats that connect them to their branches often fall off, making many unsuitable for this grid. And then, the floor itself being uneven makes for a further issue: wayward berries rolling from their spots!

Nevertheless, it took me an hour to pick, place and photograph this piece, and I managed to hold my patience throughout!

A recent misty morning adventure led me to Wearyall hill. The view towards the Tor from here is spectacular on any occasion, but is gifted an even more ethereal beauty by the morning mist. As it gathers to the east of Wearyall it reaches a level at which it begins to brim over the ridge, as if bubbling from a cauldron, and pouring into the chalice of Glastonbury town. Here it creates a certain trick of the eye, making the isle seem groundless, and the hills like sky castles. The mist rolls into town, creeps through the Abbey ruins, consumes the church towers before it lifts to make way for that mature summer sun.

These misty mornings signal the arrival of the mutable months, warm days and cool nights combined, create this phenomenon with more consistency in the Spring and Autumn.

My current dwelling place has a landing window that looks right across the moors directly through the front door of the tower, the perfect misty morning lookout point.

Until next time.

MW – 7/9/25