The end of summer at the Danish summerhouse, banking on the bank holiday. June’s painted lady butterflies have been replaced by brighter red admirals flitting around the apple trees while the wasps swarm fallen fruit.
We made an early decision here to be sensitive to the environment: apples and pears are old Danish varieties, other trees we have planted are native to the area. The same that grow wild everywhere. We are not looking to make our presence much felt. The larches are taller than when we were last here, the firs and pines, too. The beech has filled the gaps between us and the neighbours. The oak leaves rustle in the sea breeze. The fresh green is gone.
The dying silver birch has no new growth. I cut a notch under the bark to find dull brown. I am unsure as yet what to do except strew the branches with bird balls and feeders through the winter. The rugosa is still in happy crimson flower, with its intoxicating scent.
My Danish mother-in-law brings us lily of the valley to go with Henri’s Valentine’s Day plants now colonising the border. As ever, we take a morning walk around noting the changes. The bramble is creeping back. The rowan is in full scarlet berry. The blackbirds will feast on them later. The ox-eye daisies have all but disappeared. A few nasturtiums and calendula cling on. Mushrooms and puffballs are popping up.
We are joined by an electric blue and green dragonfly, darting around chasing butterflies while anxiously waiting to find a mate. The geese and swans are calling, cutting through the sky. Autumn comes fast to Scandinavian gardens. Spiders have started wrapping the black wood in white webbing. Long legs lurk in every corner. My wife feels at home. I feel happy.
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