A fall haze lies over the Cawston Hills in the Sunny Similkameen Valley,
the larger locale for a Grand Garden Party being held
in the jam packed garden on the hill.

Invitations were sent out to all alumni who have made the garden
the great success it has been since the first blooms
made their appearance back in March,
and acceptance has been spectacular.

The Maples, in the process of donning their Scarlet Coats
stand garden over the celebrations

and keep a stern eye on some alien creatures marching across the meadow
with an eye to crashing the party

in the meantime, the gathering makes merry, - all in colourful garb and elbow to elbow in a garden that is going to have to be severely divided, and the extra plants moved into new beds

come Spring

Miss Callie has no formal invitation, but being a frequent familiar in the garden click on the picture and see her tail seeking admittance.

The lavender made a special effort to make a return appearance, smelling so pretty and old-fashioned. Together with the Alyssum they lend a fragrance to the air that the sweet warmth of mid day intensifies.

A lone blue delphinium

sends greetings to the last of the sunflowers.

a few gaily coloured lanterns converse amongst the Iris stalks

and the Europa Rose blooms on, oblivious to its out of the way place along the fence.

The Marigolds enjoy the cooler weather and show their appreciation with a wild display of golden buttons.

Next door are a few Shasta Daisies that came to lend a certain daintiness to the riotous colour.

A little pot of geraniums, nestling amongst the blueness of their neighbours

and the pot marigolds, that stay right to the end, even after the last dog is hung (where did that dreadful phrase come from???)

Some late snapdragons

brighten up the pots around the patio

and they all give shelter and make eyes at this sweet little giraffe
who found his way to the party.

A delicate montana

and a second blooming of pinks

keep the prairie Princess rose company, as they gather round her feet.

The Mums have finally come into their own, and the wise old owl keeps watch for the arrival of Jack Frost, whose destiny it is to end the party with his silvery rime.

A perfect day for taking pictures - mellow, mild, calm and cloudy.

So after tea we started off, - first to get the National Post, without which this household would not flourish. Then our destination was Ginty's Pond, but on our way we took a little detour across the river, to see what surprises nature had there, and to capture the gold and orange copses far off in the heights of the mountains and spilling down the hillsides following the trail of the creeks and leaving them brushed with brilliant colour.

We found the lower part of Ginty's Pond almost dry. The grasses and the bullrushes wore their mature fall colours, and as I got out of the car a pheasant flew up from the depths of the rushes, across the pond to the far side. Along the road were the rose pips that looked so fresh and firm in July, - still crowded on the rose bushes, and at their feet and entwined amongst the roots a goodly crop of poison ivy, in its guise as a harmless, colourful vine.

A little way off the road a sturdy grey stump towered above the foliage, with four or five woodpeckers' holes marking it as a place called home.

We continued to the East end of the pond, where the water still flowed and the colours and the calmness bespoke a gaudy peace.

As we drove home the clouds parted somewhat, and the day ended with enough blue in the sky to make a sailor a pair of pants, as my Grandmother would have said.

Enjoy..... click on the arrow to start or pause.

This morning I was having a little trouble getting copacetic with the day, but when I raised my head from my Rice Krispies what did I see? O, what did I see......

The whole valley was suffused in a luminous pink light. The camera is never very far from the breakfast table, and we, the camera and I, rushed out to drench our spirits in this ethereal splendour and see what images we could capture.... I thought I might have died and gone to heaven, but there were no pearly gates around, so I went about my picture taking business, in great awe. Husband tells me it is the angle of the sun deflecting off the clouds, which have to be at just the right height, etc., but no matter what the physics the effect on the soul is pretty stupendous.



The delicate pinks were in the East, but to the West the sun caught the clouds and turned them into a medley of fruit colours, - soft apricot, fuzzy peach, served up in a dish of palest blue.


But wait a millisecond, - the sky deepens, the clouds fold in a delicious froth, but still the air is bathed in tenderest rose.

This afternoon I hope to take a picture of the metamorphose of the neighbours row of pear trees.

Someone has laid a line along its length, lit the fuse and turned the pear trees into a row of golden torches.




Back over in the corner of the pasture the sumac competes in a blazing display of pyrotechnics.

The day ends with dour, grey skies, but they only emphasis the Autumn colours, and make them glow. Husband and I returned from a drive to get the perennial paper, suffused with the beauty of the day, and happy with what we had accomplished.