September

What is is about September and spiders? The merest touch of autumn approaching and there they are, industriously spinning their scaffolding of silken ladders from leaf to leaf, making it impossible to traverse the length of the garden without becoming hopelessly entangled. Cobweb strands attach themselves to sleeves, hair; even eyelashes. No doubt it’s the Revenge of the Spiders for all those of their race who are either mercilessly squished for daring to come inside or merely trapped in glass jars and taken carefully outside. Only for them immediately to make their way back in.

This morning I found a rather handsome individual had set up a web in my conservatory, strung tastefully between the cupboards and the work surface. But, as it was standing between me and coffee, sadly the whole edifice had to go.

One of the most useful gadgets I have ever bought on a whim was a spider remover. It consists of a long, bright yellow, plastic handle with a sort of opening brush at the the end. Hover over the unsuspecting arachnid, press a button to open the brush, take a deep breath and then let the brush close quickly and silently over the beast, which can then safely be taken into the garden. It’s quick and fool proof and humane. And, as the kit even contains a plastic spider with which to practise, I’ve got quite skilful at scooping up Spidey. No spiders have ever been harmed in the many times it has been deployed.

But spiders do seem to herald the onset of autumn. Autumn is coming early this year and the garden is already full of scarlet creepers twisting through the hedges. The shadows are lengthening and the mornings are cooler. It is a time of richness and nostalgia; change is coming and it seems quietly inevitable and often almost unbearably sad.

Autumn invites reflection and its perceived melancholy is a fine source of poetic inspiration but that is not what the spiders are doing (as far as we know anyway - although that idea might make an interesting poem all of its own). They are merely getting on with their lives and the startling diamond-glisten of the dew drops strung along their silk cobwebs is a purely accidental bonus to their function as hunting lodges and larders.

But what is it that the spiders are teaching us? What is the message from the spiders and the squirrels? And from the magpies and pigeons who sip from my conservatory gutters each evening? And from the pretty kohl-eyed vixen who seems to live somewhere underneath the shed and brings her cubs in summer to play boisterous games on the raised beds?

They all seem to be saying: this is our house. This is our garden. We live here too. Because harmony necessitates some kind of sharing. Some kind of tacit compromise. Just as the neighbourhood cats (mostly) have their separate times for their urban walkabouts so they don’t have to confront each other and face a dangerous stand-off.

When things get too successful, too large or too greedy, it often seems to initiate their downfall. It may have been that the dinosaurs were ultimately too enormous for their own sustainability. It may be that our supersized brains and their corresponding appetites will one day cause our own destruction too. And maybe that’s what my garden menagerie of ‘pests’ is trying to tell me. Share. Small is beautiful. Don’t be greedy. Moderation in all things. All things. Including, of course, moderation.