A perfect Autumn day. The first of the year. Rain water on the blue lias wall outside the cottage. The last of the pink roses droop over it reaching almost into the way of anyone who might walk past. The flower heads nod deliberately and have drops of moisture that catch the light. Everything is still green and we’re thankful for how full of life the near world seems.
White cyclamens crowd outside Wiltown cottage.
Old Father Time stands solidly above the red post box on the barn as he has for as long as o can remember. His face is a bit vague and his scythe and hour glass are peeling and most unfortunate of all he has lichen growing in his groyne area. Marked by the passage of time. He needs a bit of sprucing up.
On Furlong Lane the only sound is the whispering of leaves. The first are falling onto the tarmac. The horse chestnut is already brown. This is where Dad asked mum to marry him. Was it Autumn? I think so. It would have been 1968.
Under the pines with their low hushing sound as the wind blows through its branches. It could be the sound of the sea from a cliff top.
The striped fields between here and Burrow Hill are mostly brown now. Ploughed. With one band of bright green in the middle distance. In May those stripes are bright yellow when the rake seed are in flower and sometimes a pale blue when it is linseed that is being farmed.
Jane’s daughter pulls into her drive up from Devon. I wonder how she, Jane, is doing. 94 and still completely mentally together.
Always the sound of water rushing next to Holden’s Way as it descends the hill. And still reminders of the summer: a bee buzzes past noisily, a cabbage white flutters its way frantically over the hedge. A minute ago a hornet veering to and fro amongst the branches of the pines.
My mind keeps turning to a pitch or a lesson I need to do or a stress from last week but I bring it back to this place, this moment, this light, this sound.
The Slow Walker 