Another crisp bright day. It is a peculiarity of this area that we have precious little in the way of spring, but a fine, fine autumn. Green trees are dipped in golden honey, rolled in red spices, baked brown by bright days, all at once. The air smells of earth and leaves and mountains and worms and air.
Red vines twine through quivering hedge, overgrown this summer into jungle madness, now a bright woodland bower, full of elvish sprites who paint the scenery at night.