Mists and mellow fruitfulness

Not autumn yet, but summer's ending. Not so much the rain - Bank Holiday weather, August downpours, I'm hoping for better weather in autumn (it often happens), but the first students returning (much slamming of doors, though not yet the symphony for burglar alarms which signals the new term), and the autumn fruits appearing at the greengrocer's.

Or perhaps that's premature, and plums are the last fruit of summer, not the first of autumn. I bought damsons (from the wonderful Robinsons), thinking they'd make a fine desert for Thursday's dinner party - and they did, though in the end I had to invent a recipe: I could find nothing but recipes for preserves, damson jams and jellies and cheeses (the first place I turned was Jane Grigson's Fruit Book, but she let me down; she doesn't like damsons, finding the flavour unsubtle, which indeed it is). It wasn't hard to invent: I stoned the damsons (don't believe the recipes that tell you you can skim off the stones later; you can't) and stewed them with just enough sugar, and they collapsed of their own accord to a thick wine-dark puree; I spread that over the bottom of a large flat dish and topped it with a Victoria sponge mix to which I had added a couple of ounces of ground almonds. Sprinkled flaked almonds generously over the top, and baked it on a low shelf at mark 4 until I remembered to take it out - something over an hour left it just slightly moist in the centre. I liked it that way, but slightly longer would have been fine, too.

It was a good dinner party, I think. I would have liked to have been slightly better prepared, so that when my guests arrived I could abandon the cooking and play with them - but that's always the plan, and it never happens. Reasons why it didn't happen on this occasion might have included desperance and durham_rambler vanishing off upstairs at a critical moment to scan documents (and durham_rambler reappearing to tell me there was an e-mail just come in that I should probably go and answer); and they might also have included several pounds of greengages bought cheap and needing to be sorted and stewed down. But since it was a gathering of friends, they were able to entertain each other while I caught up. After which, my only regret is that it was all over so quickly, since people had to leave to catch trains.

Probably for the best, though, since we were off quite early yesterday, abandoning the washing up to spend the day in Whitby with the Bears, who were there for the folk festival. The moors were beautiful in the rain, carpets of purple heather and veils of grey sky - except at the highest point, where we were in cloud so dense that nothing else was visible. No first glimpse of the sea, though, and no walk on the beach after. But there was good music. We went to a 'meet the Tom McConville Band' session, chat and tunes and songs, in a curious format at which the audience were implored to ask the band questions - I wondered whether there was an equivalent for musicians of the much-mocked "Where do you get your ideas from?". And we may have been forced to take shelter in a bookshop (or two). There was time for an early dinner together, then back to the flat for coffee and the interesting process of watching the Bears decide what they would do if they got a floor spot (or two) at the folk club that evening - but we didn't stay for the evening performance.

Leaving before eight o'clock, we were driving through deepening dusk from the start. Still summer, but not for long...