A Chalkboard for Every Season: Changing Your Board with the Country Calendar

There is a chalkboard in our hallway that has been many things over the years. It has been a shopping list, a birthday reminder, a place to write down the name of a bird we could not identify, and, for one memorable fortnight, a diagram of how to fix a leaky tap. But its most useful life has been as a seasonal almanac. A record of what is happening outside, in the garden, in the village, and in the kitchen, written in chalk and wiped away when the season turns.

The idea came from an old pub tradition. Village pubs used to keep a board by the door that told you what was on, what was in season, and what was worth walking down for. It was practical, but it was also a kind of calendar. It told you where you were in the year. I wanted that for our home.

Spring and Summer: Abundance and Light

In spring, the board fills up quickly. The first thing to go on is the blossom. 'Plum blossom out,' written in the top corner, with a little drawing that never quite looks like a plum. Then the seedlings. 'Tomatoes sown, 12th March.' Then the first cut of the grass, the first swallow, the first pint taken outside.

Spring boards should be busy. They should look like a garden that is waking up. Use white chalk for the facts and a coloured chalk for the small joys. A yellow line for the daffodils. A green line for the first nettles. The board becomes a record of impatience, which is what spring is.

Summer boards are simpler. By July, the garden is doing what it wants and there is less to say. I write the things that matter. 'Broad beans ready.' 'Cider fermenting.' 'Pub quiz, Thursday.' The board gets less attention in summer, because we are outside, and that is as it should be. A summer board should look a little neglected. It should have a smudge where someone brushed past it with suncream on their arm.

Autumn and Winter: Harvest and Hunkering

Autumn is the board's finest hour. This is when it earns its keep. 'Apples ready, press on Saturday.' 'First fire.' 'Sloe gin started.' The writing gets smaller and denser as the nights draw in. There is more to record, and more reason to stand in the hallway reading it.

I like to leave a corner of the autumn board for the things we do not want to forget. The name of the person who gave us the damson tree. The date of the first frost. The exact shade of the leaves on the beech hedge, which I once tried to describe in three words and failed.

Winter boards are for hunkering. They are short. 'Logs in.' 'Stew on.' 'Pub at six.' There is less to say because the year has said it already. The board gets wiped less often, and the chalk dust builds up in the corners. By February, it looks like a snowdrift. Then the blossom comes again, and it starts over.

A chalkboard is not just a place to write things down. It is a place to notice them. And noticing, in a country year, is most of the point.