Last night, I sat on the deck and watched the sun disappear; glowing red and orange filled the sky under a band of clouds.

It had been one of those thick, humid August days when the air seems to hold onto the heat, the humidity leaves its mark, and the cooler air only becomes noticeable after the sun has begun to sink. Barely a breath of air whispered through the trees, and as darkness settled, I sat there feeling the forest around me, watching the last light slip away, and realized something.

There were no fireflies.

Perhaps there were one or two hiding somewhere beyond where I could see them, but the little constellation of lights that had flickered through the darkness earlier in summer, bringing me immense, almost childlike joy every time I got to witness their magical light dance displays, seemed to have disappeared.

This I noticed. This was the season's gentle way of change.

Tilting my head, my eyes still adjusting to the dusky darkness, I realized the new chorus of the evening. Not really heard in this volume since spring, and now seemingly higher in the trees, it had taken on a deeper sound within late August's damp evening. The peepers had changed their song. Although we are not quite in autumn, summer has started its slow meander out, allowing the new season to emerge. A story as old as time.

Driving the country roads lately, I've noticed the fireweed has changed too. Those brilliant fuchsia blooms that caught my eye earlier in summer have mostly finished flowering. Now their soft, white seed heads are beginning to open, catching the wind and carrying their tiny passengers toward whatever patch of earth will welcome them next. White and fluffy like miniature fairy clouds floating along the fields and forests.
Fireweed has always seemed like a plant that understands change.

It appears when the land has been disturbed, flourishes through summer, and then, almost overnight, becomes something entirely different with its long pods that erupt white, like ghostly tips even.

The leaves are an incredible body tonic when made into a tea, and it can be rolled and fermented into "Ivan Chai," a tantalizing, black-like tea carrying prebiotics with it now as well. A changeling indeed!

There are the goldenrods - as you may have noticed they are absolutely everywhere now.

Brilliant yellow, unapologetic, and impossible to miss, lighting up roadsides, fields, ditches, and old clearings. Many assume that it's this beautiful plant that strikes up many humans' allergies, when in turn she actually aids in giving relief; it's the nasty little ragweed that sets most of the population off.

​There is an old piece of farmer's weather lore that says when goldenrod begins to bloom, there are roughly six weeks left until frost. But whether the goldenrod actually possesses a secret weather calendar is a mystery probably best left to the goldenrod itself, but I rather like the old habit of watching and old lores!

Before weather apps, satellite images, and hourly forecasts, people looked to the landscape for clues. The plants, trees, birds, and animals were part of the calendar.

They still are; perhaps we have just forgotten.

Another present show-off currently would be the rowan tree. The berries are beginning to ripen, those brilliant orange bunches slowly turning into red clusters standing out against the deepening greens of the forest.

Rowan, or mountain ash, has carried a remarkable amount of folklore with it. Across Europe, it has long been associated with protection, magic, and warding off misfortune. Sprigs were hung near homes and carried by travelers, and the bright red berries themselves became part of stories and protective charms. Here in Atlantic folklore, the tree has been woven into weather lore. In Newfoundland, a heavy crop of rowan berries has traditionally been said to foretell a difficult winter. Whether the berries can actually predict the winter is, again, another matter entirely (though I wouldn't rule it out myself). There truly is something beautiful about the old habit of looking at a tree and asking it what might be coming. (Don't judge, I talk to the trees often!)


Perhaps that is what we have lost a little in our modern world—not necessarily the knowledge of whether a heavy berry crop means a harsh winter, but the habit of looking closely enough to wonder and to be curious.

For now, the berries themselves will wait a little longer as, traditionally, rowan berries are often gathered after frost, which helps soften their intense bitterness. They can also be frozen before preparation to mimic that effect. Once cooked and properly prepared, those tart little berries can become jellies, syrups, sauces, preserves, and delicious beverages.​

And so the season begins to turn toward gathering.

Blackberries are still hiding among their thorny branches, although my basket is usually only partly full by the time I reach home—absolute bliss for sure. Except for when you spot that big, ripe, perfect blackberry, reach for it, and suddenly you're negotiating with a mighty thorn bush that appears to have taken your decision personally. They leave some good marks, grab your clothes unapologetically, and catch you up if you set yourself far enough into a patch. Still, we gather them. Because late-summer berries are one of those simple, sweet, seasonal gifts that ask very little of us except a little patience, a basket, perhaps some bandages, and a sewing kit (humour intended). Blackberries do have a long history as both food and a traditional herbal plant. The ripe berries can be eaten fresh or transformed into syrups, jams, sauces, cordials, and fermented drinks.

The leaves have also been traditionally used in herbal teas, as they are packed with antioxidants, vitamins, and tannins. They may soothe mild digestion issues, ease a sore throat, and even help support your immune system. Win-win, and worth every scratch! This is where I think autumn foraging becomes particularly interesting. 
We aren't simply gathering food. We are learning preservation. We are taking something that exists abundantly for a brief moment and finding ways to carry a little of summer forward with us.

A jar of blackberry syrup in January is more than a condiment. It is a memory. The same can be said for the wild apples beginning to ripen and fall throughout the Fundy landscape. There are old apple trees tucked into fields that have long since returned to forest, trees growing along forgotten roads, trees standing alone where there is no obvious reason for an apple tree to be there.
But there usually is. Someone planted it. Someone lived there. Someone tended that tree. Perhaps there was once a house nearby, a small farm, a family, a garden, a life that has now been slowly swallowed by forest. The apple tree remained - there is something hauntingly beautiful about that. The land remembers in ways we don't always recognize. An old apple tree can be a marker of human history hiding in plain sight. 


That is what I love most about this time of year. The landscape is changing, but it is also revealing. The trees begin to tell their stories through colour and fruit. The plants tell us when their work for the season is nearly finished. The berries ask to be gathered. The mushrooms appear after rain. The old apple trees remind us that people have walked these roads long before us. It's a thought I find myself daydreaming about. Again, curious about the past and the memory of it all. The woods, the meadows, the river edges found along old dusty country roads always somehow draw me back towards the water. Everything eventually brings me there; I am a water sign, so it's inevitable, really.


Time spent camping this summer on Martin Head was the most incredible and magical experience, hands down. From listening to the ocean's rhythmic, gentle, thunderous flow, to following the fog and the changing tides whilst wandering the shore, hiking the cliff, and watching the little mink whales in the distance—it was vast and deeply
stirring right to the core of us. What a soul-filling gift it was!

Here along the Fundy coast, the landscape doesn't end where the forest meets the shore. The story simply changes. One in particular intrigued me when we headed to Deer Island and Campobello earlier this summer at low tide. Another harvest was revealed. Dulse! The salty treat, a favourite of maritime folk.

Widely gathered as well along the shores of Grand Manan, dulse has been gathered by hand for generations. The harvesters follow the tides down to the exposed rocks, gathering the reddish-brown seaweed before the water returns. It is an old rhythm of work that depends as much on the moon and the tide as it does on the weather.

And then comes the sun. Freshly harvested dulse is traditionally spread out in thin layers on drying grounds, where the sun and wind slowly draw the moisture away. On a good day, several hours of sunshine can transform those wet, leathery fronds into crisp sheets of sea vegetable. It sounds simple. But anyone who lives here knows that asking the Fundy weather for several hours of sunshine, low humidity, and cooperation is perhaps a slightly optimistic request. The fog has opinions. So does the tide. And the rain, as always, seems to arrive precisely when something important is drying. (So east coast chic!) No complicated machinery. No rushing. The tide exposes the harvest. Human hands gather it. The sun preserves it. Dulse has long been part of coastal food traditions, eaten as it is or added to soups, chowders, breads, and savory dishes. Once dried, it can be crumbled into flakes or ground into a seasoning, giving food a deep, salty, almost mineral character. It also provides nutrients including iodine and minerals, although—as with other iodine-rich sea vegetables—it is something to enjoy thoughtfully rather than assuming that more is always better. Dulse is an important part of this September story. It reminds us that here in Fundy country, the land is only half the story.
The other half is the sea—the Fundy Coast. The same season that ripens the rowan berries grows the dulse under the tides. The same sun that ripens blackberries dries seaweed on the rocks. The same fog that settles over the forest can make a dulse harvest impossible.

Everything is connected: the forest to the marsh, the ocean to the shore, the tide to the moon, the weather, the people.

And of course, plants. We sometimes think of foraging as wandering into the woods with a basket, but here, for generations, gathering has also meant watching the moon, reading the tide tables, knowing the rocks, watching the weather, and understanding that the ocean gives on its own schedule.

It’s part of the local magic of living here: being present, learning, and growing. Because here, the land teaches us to look down. The trees teach us to look up. And the Bay teaches us to look outward.

​Welcome September and the soon Harvest moon! Wander kindly, friends. Gather sustainably, and be present in every moment you can. For summer is fleeting in its glory. Cherish it, live in fullness and adventure.
​

To support the health of our little hummingbird friends, it is also important to provide natural opportunities for their feeding, resting, and nest building. Planting a variety of bell and trumpet-shaped flowers in the yard provides a natural food source for these tiny territorial creatures. Bee Balm, Honeysuckle, Garden Phlox , Salvia, Red Columbine, Magenta Beardtongue, Zinnias and Petunias are all good options! Spread those plants out around the property to provide lots of opportunity for hummingbirds to stretch their wings and not get in arguments over resources!

The Maplegrove Inn will be hosting a very special Mother's Day Tea on May 9th and 10th. Fingers-crossed that our guests will enjoy a slice of Hummingbird cake while being treated to the sight of these gorgeous little birds flitting about in our garden!

Hummingbird Cake Recipe 
(makes a very large, moist cake)

Ingredients:
3 cups AP flour
1/2 cup sugar
1 cup light brown sugar
1tsp baking soda
1 ½ tsp ground cinnamon
¼ tsp cloves
¼ tsp nutmeg
1 tsp salt
1 ½ cup veg oil
3 large eggs, room temp
8 oz can of crushed pineapple, drained
2 cups mashed bananas (5-6)
1½ tsp vanilla
1 cup chopped pecans

Directions:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees and line 2 9 inch round pans
Sift dry ingredients and add sugars in a bowl
In separate bowl, whisk wet ingredients
Add dry ingredients to wet until just combined.
Bake for 25 - 30 min until the inserted toothpick comes out clean.
Cool in pan for 5 min, then turn out to cool completely.
​Dust lightly with powdered sugar or frost with cream cheese frosting. ​