One Last Tour Before Autumn Takes Over

Unusual autumn fruits. Akebia.

As September deepens and the evenings grow cooler, I can feel the garden shifting. The wind whips through the leaves, showers roll in, then give way to brief bursts of sunshine. This is autumn’s calling card — unpredictable, ever-changing, and unmistakable. The plants feel it too. Growth has slowed, some leaves are torn and battered, and yet there’s still so much colour, texture, and life here.

Walking through the garden at this time of year feels a little bittersweet. On one hand, I’m soaking up every bloom and every shade of green before they fade. On the other, I know this is the last proper tour before the garden tucks itself away for winter.

Lessons in Resilience

I stop first at a modest little pot by the back of the house — my Venus flytraps. I’ve had them for nearly a decade, and they’ve endured just about everything Yorkshire weather has thrown at them: frost, ice, even minus-seven winters. For a while, I used to shelter them in the greenhouse, but in recent years I’ve left them out in the cold, and they’ve thrived.

This year has been one of their best. Their survival feels symbolic: a lesson in resilience, reminding me that sometimes plants — are stronger than we give them credit for.

The Palms and the Giants

Moving into the main garden, the palms are still standing proud. The Trachycarpus princeps are particularly striking. Their silvery-white undersides shimmer when the wind turns their leaves, a sight that never fails to stop me in my tracks. These palms haven’t been watered once this year, despite the long, dry summer — and yet they’ve pushed on, proving just how tough they are.

Nearby, the bananas, cannas, and bamboos are making their final stand before they’re cleared away. This central jungle bed, once the heart of the garden’s tropical look, will soon be redesigned into a family lawn. It won’t be “just a lawn” — palms, evergreens, and exotic touches will frame it — but still, I pause a little longer, knowing this is the last time I’ll see it in full jungle splendour.

Surprises Along the Way

The garden has offered its fair share of surprises this year. The ginger lilies have been exceptional, flowering tall and strong despite the lack of water. Their delicate evening fragrance hangs in the air, a reward for the daily effort of watering them by hand. The salvias, too, have been tireless — blooming since May and showing no sign of stopping.

But there have been losses as well. My Chilean ferns, which had quietly thrived for nearly a decade, were defeated by the drought. The amaranthus struggled, their leaves showing the stress of heat and red spider mite. The Colocasia, normally bold and lush, are crisped and smaller than they should be. Gardening is always a balance between triumph and setback — and each tells its own story.

The Garden’s Heart

No matter how many times I walk through, the Chilean wine palm always steals the spotlight. Towering more than four metres high, with two metres of trunk alone, it’s an absolute giant. Slow to establish, it has now become a symbol of patience rewarded.

It isn’t just a plant; it’s a timekeeper. Each new leaf is a reminder of the passing years, each metre of trunk a marker of how far the garden has come. When I look at it, I’m reminded that gardens — like life — are long-term stories, not quick wins.

A Garden in Transition

This year’s weather has pushed everything to its limits. An incredibly wet winter was followed by one of the driest summers I can remember. The hosepipe ban meant relying on watering cans, lugged across the garden day after day to keep the tree ferns alive. Even the eucalyptus shed bark in great sheets — a dramatic sign of stress. And yet, somehow, the garden holds on.

As I make my way along the new gravel paths, I see spaces that are still bare, waiting. I haven’t planted them yet — it was simply too dry. But bare ground holds promise. By spring, it will be filled again, shaped into something new.

Closing the Season

This walk feels like a farewell, though not a permanent one. It’s the last lush, full tour of the year, but winter brings its own kind of beauty. There will be evergreen silhouettes, frosted ferns, and the quiet rhythm of plants resting. Over the coming weeks I’ll begin the work of clearing, protecting, and overwintering. Tender plants will be lifted, cuttings taken, and the jungle bed prepared for its transformation.

And then the cycle begins again.

What the Garden Teaches

As I finish the walk, I take one last look at the palms and tree ferns backlit by the September sun. The garden, even tired at the edges, still feels alive, resilient, and hopeful.

Gardening has taught me that no season is wasted. Even in a year of drought, stress, and loss, there are victories: a palm pushing out new leaves, a ginger flowering taller than ever, a Venus flytrap surviving against the odds. Change isn’t an ending; it’s just part of the rhythm.

So I’ll savour these last warm days, these last bursts of colour, before the garden folds itself into rest. And when spring comes, I’ll be ready — as the garden will be — to start again.

— Yorkshire Kris