I think Shaun would have copyright problems if I posted the picture, so it's clicky time...
http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddes...-2011-in-pictures#/?picture=380879020&index=0
There's a week in every autumn that throws a switch. It's the week in which short-sleeved shirts are folded up, front lights become a fixture rather than something I reach for on my way out of the door, and when, for the first time, I notice drifts of fallen leaves at the roadside. Expectations change, and, rather than looking back to the summer, I look forward to winter rides and the virtue in them.
It's the wonderful compelling starkness of the countryside that has me looking for signs of winter. This Sunday, weather permitting, Susie and I will schlep down to Whitstable, and, wrapped up warm in gloves and hats, we'll go over the little crest at Chalk and take in the estuary, the line of poplars on the horizon, the empty fields, and savour the cooler air. The summer songbirds will have given up, and crows will flap around fields ploughed for winter wheat. Maybe we'll catch the first tang of leaf-mould smell.
Another summer gone, another winter in view. I can't wait.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddes...-2011-in-pictures#/?picture=380879020&index=0
There's a week in every autumn that throws a switch. It's the week in which short-sleeved shirts are folded up, front lights become a fixture rather than something I reach for on my way out of the door, and when, for the first time, I notice drifts of fallen leaves at the roadside. Expectations change, and, rather than looking back to the summer, I look forward to winter rides and the virtue in them.
It's the wonderful compelling starkness of the countryside that has me looking for signs of winter. This Sunday, weather permitting, Susie and I will schlep down to Whitstable, and, wrapped up warm in gloves and hats, we'll go over the little crest at Chalk and take in the estuary, the line of poplars on the horizon, the empty fields, and savour the cooler air. The summer songbirds will have given up, and crows will flap around fields ploughed for winter wheat. Maybe we'll catch the first tang of leaf-mould smell.
Another summer gone, another winter in view. I can't wait.