We took our regular, twenty-minutes-on-our-own, double-that-with-curious-little-ones walk a couple of weeks ago. The trees were mostly dressed in green, with the odd bit of amber jewellery: dipping their toes in the water of autumn styling.
Rowan trees abundant with huge fistfuls of fruit, a sign of the bountiful nut harvest to come from their woodland neighbours. It truly, and gratefully, is a mast year.
It seems like every time we go for a walk, I take a photo of the sky through the veil of tree foliage. Everyone has a favourite, soulful place. My mum's is on the beach, probably on a spring or autumn day, looking for shells and doughnut stones. Mine is on a wooded walk, stream in my ears, birds in song, hedgerows resplendent in the varied bounty of the English countryside. I could not live anywhere without a host of trees and a stream running through it. Luckily I live here.
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