12/10/2025
This morning’s walk with the floofy one and his older furry brother 'The King' unfolded beneath a pewter sky, the air rich with the scent of damp earth and quiet change. The world felt suspended neither dark nor light, but something beautifully in between.
Along the field’s trodden footpath that ancient ribbon of earth, pressed smooth by the feet of wanderers, dreamers, and those who came before the grass bowed under silver dew. There, nestled low, a cobweb gleamed like spun moonlight caught in the breath of morning, each droplet a tiny universe trembling in the hush.
Beyond the hedge, the old church lingered in mist, its stone softened by time and ivy, framed by the dark lacework of trees. The hedgerows whispered in colour deep indigo sloes, blood red hawthorn berries, and the last delicate flowers of summer fading like memories at the edge of a dream.
For me and many other who follow the Wheel of The Year, autumn is the season of soul turning. Its melancholy is a comfort, a gentle descent into stillness and self. As the evenings grow long and the hearth’s glow returns, we are called inward, to rest, to reflect, to plant the quiet seeds of what will come next.
