42.

November 4th.

I have decided to do yesterday`s walk again, this time in the morning. The heavy frost has cut off the sap from the remaining leaves and they are falling from their wounds, adding to the soft underfoot feel. I know I can`t say that I`m leading a solitary life like an arctic sole explorer but the din that used to accompany my life seems a distant memory. The schools, the children, the traffic, the sirens, the accelerating motors and the month long, British show -off of fireworks in October/November. : pah! Living on my own here is a delicate luxury which may change at any moment, so when I`m walking or gardening I pass through mini worlds: the breathing of cells, the flowing of juices, the movements of microcosms. I listen to the quiet yet am super sensitive to all the clamour of nature around me .

I love the ruins around here. That`s something England lacks as they all have been snapped up by property developing projects. Barn owls, little owls, edible doormice, swallows and martens all use ruined walls and rooves. Though the forests seem better groomed than those in Britain, there are still dead wood, fallen trunks and abandoned boles to make abundant worlds. The wood ants are inactive this cold day; no troops marching across my path, but a red squirrel darts along an oak branch, only a metre from my head showering it with stars of frost.

When I reach the small summit the midday sun is really warm. I sit on a rock and sift seeds from the giant yellow gentian skeletons that stand like frayed soldier uniforms in formation.

Three buzzards mieew to each other as they circle the tree tops . They are below me for the moment and as they wheel and turn I can see their whiteish bibs.