Autumn is full of magic. The weather gets cooler, the colors of the trees, especially here in New England, begin to radiate across the sky, and beautifully plump pumpkins appear everywhere.
One thing that makes autumn feel so precious to me is the seasonal traditions that bring our family together. And one of those traditions is apple picking at Russell Orchards.
We’ve been going to Russell Orchards since before James was even born. I remember the first time we took him. He was only a couple of months old and wearing the sweetest blue sweater with little bear ears. He doesn’t love when I reminisce about how cute he looked.
But here we are, thirteen years later, still apple picking at our favorite spot.
Located in Ipswich, a coastal town on the North Shore of Massachusetts, the drive to Russell Orchards is part of the charm. Antique shops and art galleries sit alongside lobster shacks. It’s quaint, unmistakably New England, and the perfect place to visit in the fall.
When we arrive, generations of families and couples are ready for their apple-picking adventures. The farm shop is filled with baked goods, apple pie ice cream, apple cider, and the old cider mill. Outside, squash, gourds, and pumpkins of every variety surround the shop. And then there’s the smell of fresh apple cider donuts coming from the donut stand.
I ask whether we should go apple picking first or get our donuts first. The vote is for apples, so onward we go.
We decide to skip the hayride and walk to the orchard. We pass the pond with the ducks, stop for a picture at a bench in the field, and continue on to the orchard.
I’m starving. It’s 11:30 AM, and all I’ve had since 7:30 is a yogurt. I pick an apple, or two, to tide me over.
We head for the Honeycrisp trees, our favorite, and pick a mix of Honeycrisp, McIntosh, and Jonagold. Most of them will find their way into the apple pie I’ll make later.
We pass trees with trunks twisted and contorted in ways that, as James says, “look haunted.” Fitting, since I’m wearing my Halloween sweater covered in black cats and witches’ hats.
Our bag is filled to the top, and we decide it’s time to head back. The breeze carries fresh sea air along with the scent of dried grass and leaves.
If only I could bottle it up.
We join the line for apple cider donuts. As we wait for our turn, we watch them being made right in front of us. The woman dispenses the batter into the hot oil, flips the donuts, and sends them along the conveyor belt before they disappear into a white paper bag.
We order half a dozen.
By the time we reach the car, there are only one and a half donuts left.
Back in the car, we drive to Boat House Grille in Essex for lunch. This is a relatively recent addition to our apple-picking tradition, but I think it’s here to stay.
I order the lobster roll. It arrives overflowing with lobster, so much that I have to use a fork to eat it.
Then comes the universal sigh that means we all know it’s time to go. We pay the check and head home.
Driving home along the winding country roads, with views of the salt marshes stretching beside us, I feel happy.
These autumn traditions are more than another item on the calendar. They give us a reason to slow down, spend time together, and return to the little rituals that make a family feel like a family.
And next year, I know, we’ll be back. Hopefully in the same Halloween sweater, with another bag of apples and a few more donuts than make it to the car.
Until our next cup of tea,
Abby