Autumn time in Montagu


Autumn time in Montagu


SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness!

The opening line from the poem by John Keats – To Autumn. See poem below.


Autumn, first came into English in the 1300s from the Latin word autumnus. It is the season after summer, when the days get shorter and colder and when trees turn to tones and shades of yellows and barren browns. Autumn time in Montagu (South Africa) begins 20 March and ends 21st June. 

Harvest time is over in our Langeberg valley village but at Roscherrs the pots are steaming and we are forever busy preparing our wide variety of country style jams, preserves, marmalades and more.  If you are lucky enough to visit Montagu during this time of year, you will find our tasty ranges of variety at Cape Dry Factory Shop, Montagu Factory Shop and Spar. Otherwise you can visit your nearest Montagu Dried Fruit & Nuts store for a taste of Autumn time in Montagu.




To Autumn

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.


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