Dear reader...

IN NOVEMBER, THE last of autumn’s rich colour reaches its crescendo before melting away. As the final lingering leaves cast their golden shapes to the ground, the countryside takes on a new form. Bare against the leaden sky, trees become skeletal; every twig and branch visible. The ground sits beneath a thick, musky carpet. As I walk beside the river, a veil of thin mist clings to the water. The nettles and grasses that have obscured the banks throughout the warmer months are losing their height. The air is damp and just cold enough to make a cloud of my warm breath. I exhale, watching the vapour dance and float away. The stillness, and the sense that nature is returning to its annual slumber, surrounds me. I feel as if I might reach out and hold the silence in my hands. But not everything is sleeping. A heron is tracing the line of the river, flying low to the surface. Standing on the bank, my view is unencumbered. I hold my breath for a moment. Its yellow legs are held arrow-straight, cloud grey plumage flowing from its chest. Long wings take powerful strokes, head and body held true behind its razor-sharp beak. The sight of it is exhilarating, slicing through the stillness, its form stark against a muddy backdrop. Soon it is gone and silence returns, but this time it is whispering a promise that, even as we head into winter, nature can always show us something which will stop us in our tracks.