Shirtsleeves in October. Short days of low sun. Had to find my sunglasses again. And sandals. Have had a few writing sessions out on the beach this week, barefoot, almost touching the surf.
A red roof stands out like a warning sign on brushed brown fields. Young calves with square faces stare out of the flowering broom. Good place to scratch your back. Black-faced sheep, most of them pregnant. Rooks falling through the breeze. Tumble out to land, wings askew.
But the hills have taken on their Autumn colours. And you know from the way the cool air cuts you in the early morning or coming home late at night, that another season is waiting to push in from white lands.
One old hawthorn shows which way that chill will push you, even though it's not the way home. But not yet. Still, there's another blue evening warm enough to sit and gaze at a surging tide that rinses every chalk fist on the shore.