The overnight rain was heavy but ceased abruptly, leaving in the dark stillness only the sound of dripping trees as the cloud moved slowly away. In the early morning light, the hills beyond the valley are crisply outlined, the suddenly cold air washed clean to give clarity and contrast. Lines of dense mist drift in complex shapes across the valley floor, lifting and fading only as the sun rises.
In the low-angled sunshine, the points of dew scintillate on every blade of grass and spider’s web – each node is enhanced and the whole curved surface creates a faint, blurred spectrum of colour. Yet, however picturesque this might be, dewed grass still gives you cold, wet feet, along with a grumpy assertion that the approach of autumn is now undeniable.
Crossing into the next valley, along the path that once served the Victorian school, I head across the hillside on the edge of the beech wood that abuts the lane. The air is still, with only the vaguest sound of movement from leaves and branches – until the hammering begins. Tap, tap … tap, tap, tap … tap… Expecting to find someone chiselling a slot in a gatepost, I glance between the trees, but the unreasonably loud sound is coming from higher up. The tapping stops, and a dark outline swoops away through the understorey as the woodpecker – probably a greater spotted – moves off. This was not the structured drumming of staking out a territory, but the considered engineering of a hole in a dying trunk. Hopefully, this will become an additional nest site for the coming season.
Before the lane emerges into pasture land, it is sheltered by an arch of beech trees through which the full morning light is now filtering. Here and there, the leaves are beginning to turn, edged now with the colours of senescence – and a few circle down from the canopy, landing with a barely audible sound on the gravel. Beyond the trees, bright sunshine slices across the landscape and the day is suddenly warmer. I head onwards, wondering if the dog that guards the next farm will remember me.
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