It's been an extremely autumnal weekend, almost to the point of cliché. On Friday afternoon, I picked up this year's autumn wreath for the door, made of leaves and dried flowers and bunches of red berries. The whole thing casts the most glorious colours of light back into the house when the afternoon sun shines through the door — the effect is almost like a stained glass window. Yesterday was cold enough that I had my first hot takeaway coffee since April — it's been a good run of iced coffee, and the switch to my cold weather order of a flat white is always a personal sign of the change in the seasons. And if that wasn't enough, this morning saw the first fog of the season, blanketing the land all throughout my walk down to the gym for my Sunday 1km swim, although by the time I emerged from my laps, it had dissipated.
I have, of course, dived into this season with great enthusiasm. After breakfast, Matthias and I walked into Little Downham — which is my favourite of the local walks, taking you along a bridleway through working farms, paddocks of cows and horses (this time we also encountered a pair being ridden slowly down the bridleway), and ending up in a little apple orchard on the edges of the village. We'd come there with intention, and returned home with tote bags filled with all sorts of varieties of apples, plus a generous handful of sloes, since I want to try making my own sloe gin this year.
Here's a photoset of all the fruit and foliage, in the beautiful autumn light.I'm not normally one for themed October viewing (Halloween is not really a big deal for me), but we did end up watching a very stupid Irish horror movie called
The Morrigan last night for Saturday film night. The paper-thin premise sees an underappreciated archaeologist heading to a remote western Irish island to work on a dig site which she believes is the final resting place of the titular pagan Irish goddess (her hypothesis being that the Morrigan was actually a real historical ruler whose place in the historical record was suppressed by misogynistic Christian missionaries), accompanied by her resentful teenage daughter, and a sleazy and sceptical colleague. The island is, of course, isolated, creepy, and hiding secrets of its own, the dig site of course unearths a burial casket whose presence unleashes a wave of chaos and violence, and I of course spent much of my time yelling at the TV ('academia doesn't work like that!' 'radio calling doesn't work like that!' 'why is there a giant ancient forest on an island to the west of Ireland which faces directly at the Atlantic Ocean?!' 'why does the ancient pagan goddess speak Modern Irish?!'), but since I wasn't expecting much, it was hard to be disappointed.
On Friday evening, I travelled down to London after work, and met Matthias for a live event with some of the journalists from the
Kyiv Independent (if you don't know much about this English-language Ukrainian news organisation, their
about page gives a very paraphrased version of their extraordinary origins and success in spite of quite considerable obstacles; I've been a paying subscriber since February 2022). Like all journalists, those at the
Kyiv Independent are used to being on the other side of the screen or page, maintaining a journalistic distance even when reporting on the existential fight of their own country and the terrible things they've witnessed, but the live event takes a different tone, with five different staff members (four journalists and the outlet's CEO) giving a personal take on life in Ukraine, interweaving ordinary experiences (embarking on a new relationship, caring for a sick parent) with the consequential and awful events they and their country are forced to live through. This was followed, after an interval (where, inevitably, I bumped into one of my colleagues and her husband, who are very involved with
Convoy4Ukraine), with a panel discussion led by a journalist from the
Guardian, about reporting on a war in their own country while also getting a fledgling independent newspaper off the ground and then grow its readership, which was also interesting — they're all extremely impressive people, and what they've built and achieved is truly amazing. No Ukrainian event would go ahead without some QR codes linking to a fundraiser, and in this case the Kyiv Independent team were paying it forward and helping the small,
independent local media outlet Kordon Media (based in the northern city of Sumy, which is right on the Russian border) get through what promises to be a very challenging winter. I was delighted and unsurprised to see that within less than ten hours of the event in London, the requisite £9000 was fully funded.
This in-person event on Friday unintentionally followed on from another Ukraine-related panel discussion which I attended online — the book launch for
Guardian culture writer Charlotte Higgins's work
Ukrainian Lessons, which is about her experiences travelling around the country during the fullscale war, and the various cultural workers (authors, artists, opera singers, etc) she got to know, and more broadly about the role of art and cultural identity in a time of war. The panel was hosted by historian Olesya Khromeychuk (head of the Ukrainian Institute London), and also included author Sasha Dovzhyk and chef and author Olia Hercules. I of course left with a whole slew of books I wanted to buy, chief among them Higgins's and Dovzhyk's own.
Things are picking up at work. September to December is the busiest time of year for me in terms of teaching load (although really March to May is the most draining, since it's when my entire calendar is just filled with panicked students working on their dissertations and all wanting to meet individually for help), and I had my first timetabled classes of the year for postgraduates last week. These were fairly light-touch — a two-part induction co-taught with my amazing former colleague who now heads up a library in another faculty. This was a particularly friendly and enthusiastic bunch of master's students, and it was nice to start off this year's postgrad teaching on such a high note. Next week is really when the timetable starts to get very packed — I'm in every day, whereas normally I work from home twice a week, which should give some idea — and then it's much of the same until the second week of December. Let's see how it goes this time around!
Sunday is half over, and I want to spend the rest of the afternoon in calm activities. I'll try and finish my book (Marina Warner's family history/memoir
Inventory of a Life, which so far has covered her parents' early relationship — her father a British soldier fighting on the Italian front during WWII, her mother a young Italian woman who attached herself to the Allied troops as an English translator due to a childhood spent in the United States — and the family's move to Cairo to head up a branch of WH Smith booksellers/stationery suppliers there, and is shaping up as an excellent and critical portrait of the lives, mores and values of the empire-building British upper class at a very specific point in time), I'll do a long yoga class, and I'll try to catch up on Dreamwidth, and generally reset my brain before a likely tiring week at work.
My
autumnal equinox subscription perfume (complete with a seasonal short film and piece of art work and, yes, such a thing is a ridiculous indulgence) is designed to smell like wet heather and bracken ferns, and I love it so much. In case you can't tell, I am incredibly, incredibly ready for it to be autumn.