Orange. If I had to pick a colour for the month of October it would definitely be orange. There’s the harmonious orange shades of leaves in their decaying state, from bright citrus yellow-orange, through to russet brown-orange. There’s the bright and gaudy orange of the pumpkins which will soon be adorning doorsteps, their innards removed and their outers carved into hideous faces, lit from within to scare the little ‘uns. It’s also the flesh colour of many winter squashes, turned into steaming bowls of soup or sweet pastry pies. And orange is the glow of the fire warming your toes on a cold and blustery evening. I often think about what colour certain months would be, and the one I’m sure of is Orange October.
So, I’ve completed my journal pages by the end of the month for once, and very soon we’ll be heading into November (a greenish white, the colour of frosted grass, in case you’re wondering). My allotment chores are not over just yet. The garlic is still waiting to be planted, there’s green manure to be sown, and at least one more bed still to be dug over. I haven’t yet started to harvest leeks or parsnips, and there are brussels sprouts and cabbage yet to be picked and pulled. It’s usually around mid November that I decide ‘that’s it’, apart from popping down to pull a leek or two, and check that all is intact after any stormy weather, there’s nothing more to do. I’ve already ordered a few seeds for next year, and the potato order is in.
Plans, plans, dreams and more plans, that’s what the winter months are for, and of course next year – in my head – the plot is going to be just perfect. The trouble is, I have that notion every year, but it never quite materialises. I’ll keep on aiming.