Late Autumn at Glenraven

October 2025

First frost across Long Meadow, the light just beginning to reach the valley floor.

The days are shorter now, and the nights have turned cold. Frost has already come, silvering the grass across Long Meadow and clinging to the fences along Cherry Row. We are still working to finish the new chicken coop before winter, hoping that chicks, or perhaps pullets, can settle in while the light is still kind. The ewes move through all the back pastures, though they favour The Far Meadow when the mornings are cold and the sun is just beginning to reach the valley floor.

The new chicken coop rising beneath the cherry trees at Cherry Row.

Home Field is nearly at rest. The orchard still holds the last of its colour, and the new Plant Library waits to be planted. The asparagus has browned now, tall fronds turned to gold and rust, ready to be cut down before winter. In the kitchen, apple butter and pear and ginger jam simmer slowly beside jars of spiced syrup made from peels and cores. The work is slow and sticky, and the yield small, yet the jars glow like captured autumn on the counter.

The asparagus bed in Home Field, browned and ready to cut before winter.

It has been a hard week. We said goodbye to Rocky, who lost his fight with lymphoma. The rain was heavy that day and the wind low. We buried him in Cherry Row, beneath an old cherry that leans over the rough ground above the creek. The soil there is rich with leaf fall and moss, and the space feels peaceful in its wildness. By morning, the sun had returned, and we watched the other animals move through the light as if nothing had changed. Moose dozed by the fire, Luna wandered the windowsills, and Raven slipped in for a midday nap before returning to her rounds outside.

The Front Garden still holding its colour against the turn of the season.

The Front Garden still holds its shape. The asters and grasses stand tall, and a few stubborn blooms of persicaria and geranium catch the low light. Soon it will all fade, but the calm feels earned. This is the season of small comforts and slow work, the kind that steadies the hand and clears the mind, the kind that reminds you that the land, and the heart that tends it, both need their time to rest.