Coming up to the back end of the year and one of my favourite times...the mist hangs low over Tom's field in the mornings...it's quiet as quiet can be...
The gorse bushes, their sweet scented blossoms long gone, are adorned with thousands of delicate gossamer webs...they glimmer and glitter as the sun breaks through.
The cattle mooch about...licking each other's necks with long black tongues...while swallows settle on the telephone wires...fidgeting and restless, as the last of the nestlings swoop around them, expecting to be fed.
The earth is still and silent...burdened by her harvest of fruits and nuts...time to pick the lavender...left to dry in brown paper bags, for filling sachets to keep the sheets smelling clean and fresh...to dead head the roses and think about picking sloes and blackberries...
Gather the parsley to freeze and dry the marjoram...cut the last of the sweet peas and pick the fat broad beans to keep for seed next spring...
It is the time for filling up the bird feeders and watching with pure delight as the goldfinches cluster round the nuts outside our window and Jonny walks slowly past with a cow and her new calf...all wobbly legs and a skip to its step.
The beaches are silent...no children hunting for starfish in the rock pools...no enthusiastic fathers enticing their sons to a game of beach cricket...just lone souls with a dog or two. Stopping to pick up a piece of sea glass or a pretty shell...they go to the old 'pub and have a whiskey...perhaps a cheese and pickle sandwich...
We'll nod and smile and they say 'it's good enough for the back end'...the fire is lit, but it's sunny outside...
I wake in the middle of the night to listen to the swans flying overhead...calling to each other...before they land with a splash in the lough. They take turns at being the leader of the skein so no one swan is left with the burden...
The wild geese come soon after, filling the dark night skies with their mournful other worldly cries...
It's mating time for the foxes...the sharp yap of the vixens carries across the misty fields...when morning comes we find their spraint and the delicate paw-prints...small holes in the garden where they've dug for earthworms.
I have big bunches of scarlet dahlias on the table now...and we see old Mr Allen, with his wicker basket, gathering flat field mushrooms...
The neighbours light their fires in the evenings...the sweet scent of burning turf drifts around our street as lights go on in the yards...a dog barks in the distance.
The back end is here.
I love your post, I love misty mornings, that little nip in the air and the smell of freshly baked bread and wood smoke just hanging there. The Blackberries are ripe in some places, I'm so delighted to be expecting a bumper harvest of apples again....mmm Blackberry and apple jam and mint jelly!
Breakfast Greek style 
Need advice ? 
The sounds of nature 
