Perhaps in sympathy with the changing clocks, cloud had blanketed the moor, bleeding colour from the woods beneath, the light fading before it had properly arrived. It seemed one of those days when nothing much would happen, the sort that might put a hole in your mood. And yet, as the afternoon wore on, the blanket thinned and colour returned, like someone unexpectedly turning up a dimmer switch.
The yellowing birch leaves sparked into life and, easing my way down steep ground, I kicked over a Russula cyanoxantha, a charcoal burner mushroom, its cream-tinged underside glowing brightly in the preternatural dusk.
