The turning year.

First of November. Socks must be found. The fire has now been lit five times and the animals are seeking warmth communally.
Yesterday was a real 'Jack the Ripper' day, perfect for halloween, misty and dank. It reminded me of those early winter mornings in London, walking through Spitalfields market across to Wilkes Street to work, the ghosts lurking in dark doorways of the black-yellow bricked buildings.
Back to this corner of France. Actually, I've just been out for a dog walk and the sock idea has been discarded for the moment. A bright, glistening day, the sky washed to a perfect clarity by yesterday's rain. Pomegranates must be picked. We've done two batches and juiced another bowlful last night for a halloween soup evening. I had a sore throat yesterday, but two glassfuls of the ruby liquid seems to have seen off whatever it was.
So, writing and gardening today, now jobs have been done. Huge amounts of cutting back foliage, and a bit of in-bed writing. First book is now on its, possibly, fifteenth edit, second, written and waiting the first cut, third at rambling stage.
We traded soups last night, Ruth and Chris took the remainder of the pumpkin, and we have their courgette and mint.
Soup, jumpers, firewood, bonfires, two duvets, jam gap after pomegranate. Next jam - cherry around late may.