Sitting at my desk, I can see them fall: leaf upon leaf, in shades of ochre and gold, orange and honey. Leaves from the cherry and the wisteria, chestnut and jasmine, each one waving ‘goodbye’ as they pass the study windows. I have been charmed by falling leaves all my life, and even now I am not past throwing handfuls into the air each autumn, watching them fall slowly back to earth.
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The leaves of the vast, ornamental cherry on the street outside my house descend slowly, clearly in no hurry to meet their fate. They end their year in shades of butter and rust, but without the brilliant reds and oranges I hope for. Nevertheless, even in their muted colours, the cherry’s leaves are just as beautiful (to my eye at least) as the blossom in spring, and slightly longer lasting. The majority fall underneath the canopy and can stay and rot, but too many clog the granite gutters of the street outside.
These leaves I brush up and shovel into a bag, sneaking them, like stolen treasure, through the house to my own compost heap. Those of the horse chestnut trees that tower majestically along the grass verge are left to crumble to dust, enriching the root-packed ground underneath.
I long for windy autumn days, simply to watch the falling leaves dance and flutter on the breeze, their last waltz before their journey back to the earth.
They take a while to break down, particularly their stems. Among them are conkers, shining brightly, as if polished by fairies. For several years now, these leaves have fallen early, the trees appearing to suffer from Guinardia, the chestnut leaf blotch.
Unsightly, but rarely fatal to the trees. I long for windy autumn days, simply to watch the falling leaves dance and flutter on the breeze, their last waltz before they begin their journey back to the earth, decomposing among the trees’ tangled roots. With luck they will fall in piles, so eternal children like myself can kick them before the street sweepers get to them, or a hedgehog finds a winter home in them.
I long for windy autumn days, simply to watch the falling leaves dance and flutter on the breeze, their last waltz before their journey back to the earth like myself can kick them before the street sweepers get to them, or a hedgehog finds a winter home in them.
The favourites, if there can be such a thing, are the leaves of my beech topiaries, which brown crisply but hold on to the branches throughout the winter. As we are currently trying to get the beech ‘bee-hives’ back into shape, last year the leaves were lost to a stiff pruning in late autumn, but we may leave them be this year.
With luck they will fall in piles, so eternal children like myself can kick them before the street sweepers get to them, or a hedgehog finds a winter home in them.
I love them for the way they tenaciously hold on all winter, providing a gentle brown backdrop for the snowdrops underneath, and their tendency to rustle in the winter wind. It is a comforting sound.
Not all falling leaves are loved. I could do without the pesky stems of the robinia. The leaves are tiny and stick to the broom; the stems lodge in the tines of the rake. Left in place, they look untidy and take ages to break down on the compost. Their only charm is the way they fall when caught on the wind, like a gull riding a sea breeze.
If the gentlest leaf-fall is that of small, lightweight plum and apple that rise and fall on the currents, then the most dramatic is that of the fig that sits to the left of the garden.
It is as if the huge leaves, like the hands of a giant, whisper to one another ‘ready, steady, GO…’ and come crashing to the ground en masse. A leaf-fall that sounds like an avalanche.
The timing of my usual spring trip to Japan changed last year, and I was able to see the native trees in their autumn colours. The sight of acers in their end-of-year costumes made me plant a further two within days of arriving home. Given enough sun to ripen their leaves, they display vibrant hues often missing in my own acers and cherry – leaves the colour of ginger and turmeric, apricot and claret and every imaginable shade of ochre.
As a teenager, I collected autumn leaves and pressed them between the pages of heavy books, only to forget about them until spring, when they would re-appear like forgotten bookmarks with each turn of the page. I am still not past picking up an exceptional leaf or two to press under the weight of a book. They keep their colour surprisingly well. Just don’t try it with jasmine sprigs; the fine dust they
crumble to is annoying in a book, like getting sand between your toes.
I have chosen the small trees in my garden with half-a-mind to autumn colour. The Cornus kousa and the Acer palmatum were no-brainers, but there have been surprises, such as the amelanchier, whose leaf colour I didn’t consider and is now a highlight of the season, plus the orange edges to the deep-green leaves of the witch hazel. Given a longer, more radiant summer, there might have been even better colour in my north London patch.
I do tire of sweeping fallen leaves from the terrace and the gravel paths, an almost daily task at this time of the year, but it is a small gripe compared to the spirit-lifting joy their colours bring. I feel no sadness that the leaves have gone for another year. They will break down and enrich the soil in which the trees stand, and I know they will be back, in shades of piercing spring green, very soon.
