Just bonkers about conkers

NOT even one of Yorkshire’s countless stunning vistas is as likely to stop me in my tracks during one of mine and Mrs Kelly’s regular walks as the currently frequent sight of hordes of freshly fallen conkers beneath a horse chestnut tree.

Similar trees in the neighbourhood where I grew up were picked bare before the spiky green casings had scarcely hit the ground.

Today’s children don’t seem to share the same enthusiasm. Nor is there any reason they should.

But, even now, I struggle to restrain the compulsion to greedily gather up such a natural bonanza before anyone else spots them. Nothing still sums up more for me the start of autumn.