The Countryside in September

Sarah Ryan is foraging for woodland fruits and scanning the skyline for gathering birds

September is the first month of the changing season in which I pull my coat from the back of the cupboard. Really, it is still too warm for it. This is the time, after all, of balmy days that come by surprise and feel like a gift. It is getting cooler though and, most importantly, the coat has enormous pockets. At this time of year, that is essential. Into them I pack a fork, which I will use to sweep elderberries, the colour of starling feathers, off their fragile red stalks. There is also a parcel of folded paper bags, a small pair of binoculars, a notebook and a pencil. Last year, I was much less diligent in my preparations and missed a number of opportunities when I might have witnessed something rare: not just a species, but a moment. Anything can happen in the September skies as our summer visitors depart and winter ones arrive. This simple kit allows me to see, record and eat the best of the season. There is a chaos of riches out there and I do not want to miss any of it.

Ready to fly

The swallows I have been watching all summer are gathering in fidgety lines along telegraph wires, twittering restlessly. I marvel at the journey they will soon embark upon. They will cover approximately 200 miles per day and will not put on much fat before they leave, feeding as they go. It is little wonder they are such swift, gymnastic fliers. Single birds flit away, snipping up insects before swooping back to the flock. I am fortunate enough to live beneath an important flight path for birds, with two large lakes nearby. Seen from aloft, they must appear as shining oases: an attractive stop-over, where weary wings can be flicked in reviving water and a bounty of berries and insects found. There are several blackberry bushes along the track. Of course, many of the berries at eye level have already been picked or pecked. The biggest, juiciest fruits hang from arching spindles at the top of the bush. One lingers just out of reach. It is large, fat, and the same gleaming black of the lake at midnight. I step carefully between the grasping branches and reach towards it. There is the small, insistent pull of a thorn snagged in my sleeve and the gentle scrape of bramble on bare arm as my

“While not a leaf seems faded; while the fields, With ripening harvest prodigally fair, In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air” William Wordsworth, ‘September 1815’

fingertips touch its skin, and I pluck it from the branch. My joy lasts only a moment as I fumble the marble-sized thing, and it slips into the unreachable undergrowth below. Disaster. Some hungry creature will no doubt gobble it up, but that creature is not me. I find a few more, drop them into a creased paper bag and leave the rest for hungry, searching bills. They taste better outside, doused in sunlight.

Hidden treasure

Alongside the blackberries grow lipstick-red rosehips and clusters of tiny round haws, but not all of September’s treasures are fruit. I stray into the woodland, away from the path, and find scores of spiny green balls amid the leaf litter. Picking one up, I push my fingernails into a narrow cleft in its shell. It splits apart, and amid the pale green flesh is a gleaming russet horse chestnut. I do not believe the pleasure of this discovery is ever really lost. I roll the cool wood between my hands before dropping it into the secret, cottony warmth of my pocket. There is a damson tree near home which cannot hold all the fruit it produces. On the way back, I pause to gather the tumbled plums. The pale mist of their indigo skin is dissipated by my touch, revealing a smooth merlot sheen. When I slice them into halves later, they will loll on their backs, showing pale green bellies. The thought has made me hungry. Fortunately, I have a larder in each pocket.

“Beheld long living lines meandering nigh, Till round us arrowed wings sustained their flight In that most beauteous space—with thee and me: And then these birds passed home beyond the sea” John William Inchbold, ‘The Swallows’

Left to right: Swallows line up on telegraph wires ready for departure; a roe deer searches out berries; dusky elderberries ripe for picking; warm autumn light on the tranquil water.

The woods in September are full of berries to gather.

Left to right: Reaching for a ripe blackberry among the brambles; spiked soft skin parts to reveal a deep brown conker inside; branches adorned with tempting crimson-red rosehips.

Sarah Ryan grew up in the Scottish Borders, climbing trees and poring over wildlife books. Those habits have little changed and she still makes time daily to get out into the woods nearby, or at weekends to venture further afield. Inspiration comes from Roger Deakin, Nan Shepherd, Kathleen Raine, wildlife recordist Chris Watson, and outside the window.