62.

Late October


The tight stand of poplars have shed every leaf and two in the centre - most of their bark, . It is now clear that those two are long dead and their trunks shine deliciously. Glistening. straight poles. A nuthatch’s strident, falling call belongs there.

The small copse of larch and beech is still copper and bronze and its floor is a pungent, medicinal smelling carpet of beige needles. Bushels of longtailed tits are echoing each other there as they clean the twigs of tiny beasties. This scented wood belongs to Robert, my least favourite and the least favoured of my neighbours. I did remark to him that the autumn colours were magnificent this year, weren`t they? and he did grunt and nod, which I take as some sort of acknowledgement.

I tried the trick of fast tapping a stick on the hardest part, a knot, of one of the trunks, wanting to see if any territorial woodpeckers noticed. Nothing.

French folk are out mushroom hunting. Cars full of eager hunters trundle about the lanes or park at odd angles in the verges. Bent with baskets they are dotted over the hillsides. They know what they are looking for but I need to learn this skill some day. Who shall I ask?