The blackberries ripening beside the men’s pond suggest summer is on its way out. That feels a bit premature, despite the lowering grey skies and the dip in the temperature of the water. For one poet who used to live up the road in Hampstead, it was autumn that did “fill all fruit with ripeness to the core”. I think of those mellow mists as belonging to September or October, not August. But if you look at medieval illuminated calenders, harvesting is a July activity.
The one crop that has done particularly well this year, judging by the green hue of the pond water, is the algae.