Emerging from the woods at the top of the hill felt like walking on stage. Stretching before me was a glorious view of purpling heather and red-fringed bilberry spreading off downhill.
The extreme heat of mid-July had left its mark: not so long as to brown things off completely, but hurrying things along towards the season’s conclusion. Rowanberries were already orange, and I found myself picking blackberries along with the bilberries that recent rain had fattened. Autumn’s drama seemed prematurely under way.
