Sunday, 28 October 2012
I have been studying the leaves each day, keeping extensive mental lists of their progress and where around town the brightest and most beautiful colours can be found. Since my last post, things have come a long way, and this has been the most brilliantly-coloured autumn I have experienced since moving to Europe. My research has determined that, objectively speaking (of course), last Friday was the most beautiful day of the year.
On that day the leaves reached their peak, the sky was opalescent, and what is more, on that day the first snow fell.
On that day too, two storytellers arrived from Poland to perform at an event my husband had organized. Our morning was a blur of cooking and vacuuming and the fluffing of pillows, while flurries of snow whipped past the windows. Later in the day, we ventured out to show the town to our guests, and I was sort of dumbstruck by the beauty of the day, trying to etch on my mind the exact colours and how the light fell, wanting desperately to understand how to paint out the spell of autumn and winter colliding.
Just before the sun finally set we were walking along the river, where the trees glowed in the brightest hues of yellow and orange over the dark water, and from somewhere at the back of all of the layers of foggy sky a very pale peach colour glowed quietly beyond wet branches, until a person could cry from looking at it. I am not sure, but I think this fact was largely overlooked as people hurried about, hoods pulled up and heads bent down.
When we lived in Japan, one thing I loved was the way people appreciated the turning leaves. It is impossible to get a hotel room in certain Japanese cities in autumn because of the crowds of people that flock to them if they are considered to be exceptional places to admire leaves. On the evening news there is a nightly update on how far the autumn-leaf-front has advanced, as the season makes its way southward across the country. Yesterday night, standing in the park and watching a maple glowing in the dusk, we spoke about that. I was thinking too about how after the leaves fall there, there are the bare persimmon trees that hold onto their bright orange fruit all winter.
In a few days time, a friend from Japan is coming for a short visit, so we will get to look at Scotland through her eyes for a couple of days.
The clocks went back one hour last night, and suddenly the sun sets at four thirty in the afternoon again. Around 4 am this morning a multitude of fireworks went off in the street outside our bedroom window. Watching the glow from them on the ceiling, my sleepy mind decided that they were not really fireworks, but the sputtering of time as it adjusted to the clocks going backwards, just a few little jolts as time shifted tracks.
Tuesday, 16 October 2012
Goose cries and long strings of wintry birds passed overhead, quickly vanishing beyond the houses, with two weeks' worth of days caught around their ankles as they flew. That's where the time went.
Or maybe the time got painted out and drawn over. I keep meaning to post here, but everything I'm working on right now is somewhere in the middle stages. Hopefully there will be an etching to show soon though.
Yesterday, in a small round hour of sunlight, we snuck through the back lanes, disguised as the tops of our own heads just peeking out above the stone walls.
The wind smelled of fires. The sunlight had turned cold and sharp. And everywhere we went magpies called out, clicking, clacking and croaking to one another.
May you find these longer nights to be lit by vast and vivid dreams. Happy Autumn!