November can be a pretty grotty month, this time last year, it was heavy wet snow.
This year, we’re blessed with high pressure, clear blue skies, frosty mornings, sometimes with fog until late morning. The sun slowly breaks through, throwing shadows in the mist.
Waking in the afternoons is a pure joy. The sun is still warm on one side, the other is cool in the crisp air. Underfoot is cold. In the woods is that autumnal smell of gently decaying leaves.
In pockets, there’s still frost, that might stay here until the spring.
The larches are flinging out their last colours.
There’s a wonder in the air, of the dying year, of crisp joy, a sense of treasuring this before the hardness of winter.
David Essex’s, ‘It was only a winter’s tale’ sometimes plays in my head at this time. Not of the lost love, but that feeling of autumn, cold and change that it brings.