There is something about September. I'd like to say that, after the summer, it is a more relaxed time. That's probably not really true. Depending on where you are, there is still much to harvest, made even more urgent by the chill of the nights and the knowing that the time left grows short. It's a gardener's roulette, impossible to predict which night will end the game. If it were August, I'd be covering my beds on nights like these. Seemingly endless tarps, dragged on at night, and off each morning when the sun reaches the point above the trees where the plants will cook under the plastic. By this time in September, I stop doing that. Knowing that the end is in sight, somehow takes the pressure off. it will be, what it will. It is beyond my control. I didn't always feel that way. Ahead, there's the task of putting the summer's work to bed. But now, I take what I can of what remains. (I feel a bit differently about the apples, they are just starting, another story.)
C and I agreed that Sunday, we would finally take the VW somewhere and do nothing. Wonderful! I packed cheese and bread, almonds, cider and some rosemary crusted ham in a cooler. Used to be, I'd have packed a bottle of wine. I threw some walking shoes, books, my knitting and a spindle into a bag. All for an afternoon, imagine. I figure that covered all possibilities, any whim. We headed for no place in particular, someplace out of the way, with as few people as possible and a bit of a beach. We'd know when we got there. We did.
Got my ten minutes in. I've been lax with my spindling. Funny how sometimes you don't know how much you miss doing something until you do it.