Dear reader...

OCTOBER BRINGS GLOWING colour to the hedgerow. Traversing the countryside, their tangle of brambles and burnished rose hips draw a boundary between fields and villages. One such hedge skirts the bottom of my garden, its mass of arching stems and scrambling ivy creating a dense barrier of thorns, creeping roots and leathery heart shaped leaves. Standing sentinel in the hedge are two field maples. As autumn sets in, their leaves flutter downwards, coating the lawn in a rich auburn blanket. Seeing them resting on the ground, I cannot resist taking up my dependable rake. A couple of the tines are broken, and the paint is flaking from the wooden handle, but to use anything else would be like breaking a spell. Dragging it through the leaves strikes a resonant note against the soft earth below. Before long, loose mounds of leaves dot the lawn like islands floating in a green sea. It is warming work. I discard my jumper, hooking it on a low-hanging branch. Feeling invigorated, I sweep some of the leaves against the base of the hedge. There is a regular garden visitor who could make use of them for its winter repose. Once nature has its share, I will store the remainder until spring, when, having decayed to a musty smelling crumble, I will return them to the ground once more. The worms will work them down into the soil, completing the cycle. Happy with my afternoon’s labour, I retrieve my jumper. I can feel the damp air resting in its fibres. A thin veil of mist is descending. Stepping towards the house, I am sure I can hear a rustling under the hedge. Maybe it is my prickly friend…