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GOLDEN AUTUMN GRACE

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These past few months have passed by slowly. A gentle easing out of summer. Almost imperceptibly, the nights grew colder, the days shorter and the leaves transformed into flaming reds and golds and yellows and then, at their most beautiful, they silently let go and fell to carpet the paths and roadside verges. We’ve hiked, spent time with friends, failed miserably to forage mushrooms, discovered newly favourite sweet chestnut trees and marveled at the patchwork of autumnal colours, as we did last year and will, undoubtedly, do so again next year. This is our third Autumn here. I’ve been surprised at how the short space of time we have been here, each season awakens memories, as if we have been here much longer. We climb the hill to the chapel, the familiar feel of acorns under foot, a carpet sending our feet slipping from under us. We smell the wood smoke in the air. We see the poplar’s lose their leaves gradually until only a halo of yellow is left at the very top.

LOVE, SWALLOWS AND A MOUNTAIN TOP.

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I feel as if I have had so very little time to write recently. It’s a source of great frustration that when I feel most inspired is often when I am the busiest and when I finally sit down to write, all the tiny scraps of paper with my hastily scribbled notes on have long since disappeared into the debris of our home. Two lines of sudden inspiration in biro lost somewhere among the vegetables piled in baskets, the crockery, a chipped bowl full of lose change and hairbands, tea bags and jars full of pasta… Clutter and mess. A whole other story. Anyway, here I am, home alone with a filthy kitchen but time to write. This summer I yearned for home. I’ve written about this before but I will do again, I'm sorry if it is repetitive but perhaps it's just a song I'll always have for all the places I have called home in England. I’ve dreamt of afternoons in a pub with a pint of cider. I missed charity shops and bookshops brimming with books that aren’t written in the ‘pass