Well it’s a week or so since my Indian Summer post, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Today the summer‘s fans go back on the loft and whilst I’m up there I’ll move the Christmas decorations nearer the hatch.
As Stella and I begin our Sunday morning trek the heaters are both on in the bedroom and the living room.
Myself, I’m adding layers, a hoody below my shower proof jacket as the only moisture is a light fog (I hope).
I cannot give you a report of the sky as I cannot see thru the afford mentioned fog.
Stella almost seems reluctant to be out, her normally enthusiastic tail points straight back but then my own enthusiasm for our morning wander is low to, there little sound and the dull drudgery of the day feels ever present, almost like that feeling you used to get as a kid, as you realise that your parents are awake, not up, but a difficult conversation is approaching.
But this parent is Jack, Jack Frost and he’s having his coffee, iced of course, before he gets up and turns everything cold and white and the lush greens turn a dead lacklustre brown.
The temperature has definitely dropped since last week my fingers note the the chill but it’s not glove time yet.
Stella is off the lead now, and I’m pleased to say her tail is suggesting her enthusiasm is returning as she finds things to stick her nose in, and countless dog scents to follow or maybe they’re fox or rabbit, who knows.
The usual plethora of dog walkers are shooting up and down Ramparts lane as a passenger liner roars over head to sunnier climbs or skiing holidays I have to wonder.
Active 10 pops up to say ì have achieved my first brisk 10 minutes of the day.
The webs I photographed last week hoping for an indian summer are all gone. I’m told that some were apparently caterpillars pupating.
As we get deeper into Fridaywoods the atmosphere is changing there’s more birdsong and a pigeon cooing close by.
I am surprised to still see so many berries, especially Blackberries when foraging seems so much in the media. Some things we don’t know how to eat were always left for their intended audience, like rosehips, which complete the circle of life, being eaten by the birds who will, in time drop the seed somewhere for a new bush to grow.
Then i note the acorns are still in the oaks awaiting a squirrel, before they soon die off to going brown and falling to the forrest floor to rot and become food for the trees again.
The wonderful colours of summer are gone and the greens still clung in, some skiwky turn yellow before the ultimate brown and death.
But then having assumed them all gone I see some bushes adorned with the webs I expected to see, logic suggests they’re to well crowded to be normally lone spiders, so caterpillar pups they must indeed be.
As I draw this post, and walk, to a close and check my word count I note how easy words flow when I write as I go along rather than trying to relate it from memory sat at home on my laptop.