It was the weekend of our annual visit to Oare, normally in the height of the summer, but this year in the autumn, with a multitude of rare varieties of apple, the herbacious borders past their best, the trees in the avenue a brilliant orange, and pumpkins piled up for Halloween.   Each year we admire the greenhouses, the immaculate range of tools hanging in the potting shed and the compost bed, and this year the apples and onions all classified in boxes.   Going round the garden, we were able to refer to a printed catalogue which details every tree and plant, where it was acquired and when it was planted, which even I, as a non-horticulturalist, admired.

We sat outside as the sky turned black, admiring the view across the lawn and the fields towards Milk Hill:-


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