I was feeling slightly unwell for a time yesterday, so I took myself out walking. It seemed a strange thing to do, since rest was obviously in order, but instinctively I wanted trees and flowers. And my instincts were right. By the time I got home, I felt much better.
The air was gentle, warm, and charmed with sudden drifts of red and brown leaves. The little woods smelled of mushrooms. The rich brown and musky perfume of autumn is not as popular as summer's fresh sweetness but I prefer it. To me it smells like old books, old houses full of memories.
For a moment as I stood on the path looking skyward, soft green leafward, I felt as if I was in a warm autumn hour from many years ago, in the west, a hopeful dreaming young woman. Or maybe I was in that hour looking forward until now : time is a lovely crochet, not a straight line.
I have no idea whether it was midday or afternoon, or how long I walked. What I did realise, as I went from woods to water and across a busy road to the few glimpses of flowers I knew were around, was that this neighbourhood holds much beauty, in corners and hedges, small places. I'm grateful for what I can get.
I found the last flowers of the season, which was like a blessing as I've been sad to see them disappearing over the past few days.
And then I went home for a cup of tea.