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The community orchard had its last picking day on Sunday. When everyone had gone home with their bags of apples, I stayed behind with the old Bramley in the corner, the one that leans like she's listening. Poured a cup of last year's cider around her roots and thanked her for the crop and for shading the picnic table all summer. Left the highest apples for the blackbirds, and for the fieldfares when they arrive. Then I sat with my back against her trunk for a while and watched the light go gold. Wassailing is in January, but I don't think trees mind being thanked off schedule.

Alban Elfed on a wet hill

Alban Elfed with the grove: seven of us on the hill above the village, in what the forecast called 'light drizzle' and what my socks called a betrayal. We stood in the circle at the point of balance, day and night equal, and gave thanks for the second harvest. Bread from the village bakery, blackberries from the lane, and a flask of spiced apple juice passed hand to hand. Somebody's dog ate a fair portion of the offerings and we agreed that counted. The best part came after, walking down. The cloud broke for about forty seconds and the whole valley lit up silver. Nobody said anything. We didn't need to.