The days when we’d write about walks and walking? We were so much younger then; wild like the wind (that’s Cat Stevens, by the way, if it sounds familiar). What happened to us? What became of the people, we used to be? I’m now beginning to think it might be possible to construct an entire post from plagiarised song lyrics. Seriously, though; I’d almost lost sight of why I started this blog…
Outings of late seem to have been shoehorned into the gaps between extended passages of what is apparently known as life. Sustaining yourself via the misguided belief that things are going to get easier after next week seems to be part of the human condition. It’s a bloody good job those seismic shifts in times bygone folded up a few hills for us.
The whole of Sunday being already divided into a series of bite-sized time slots, it was Saturday or nothing for a quick blast around the local hills; not ideal – these days I am much more of a leisurely saunter than a quick blast disposition.
The forecast was for early mist and rain to clear quickly. For a while this looked to be erring on the side of optimism but eventually the last of the cobwebs were dispersed and there was a rare clarity to the air; more akin to a crisp winter’s day than an autumn one after a damp start, with views to the ‘next’ layer of hills – the ones you don’t always get to see. Under the tree canopy things were different – a general dampness and a smell of fungus; earthy but not unpleasant.
By autumn standards it’s been relatively windless for a good few days now and there are many millions of leaves just waiting for that last nudge to send them tumbling to the woodland floor. Then it will all look different again.
We are keeping our eyes open for signs of diseased ash trees: they are relatively few in number on the local hills but are one of the more prolific varieties to be found along canal towpaths and riversides. Leaves either on the turn or already fallen makes spotting early signs all the more difficult.