Autumn Song.

 Glorious Decay.

Autumn  Song.

Pines, the ancients, oblige the red squirrels, slowly turning to meet the same rich colours. The trees are dripping with the most beautiful golds and reds, a portent perhaps. The squirrels are busy, however do they remember...?

It has been so so long since I got to walk and sit on the old railway line. I miss it and despite there not being much sun for pretty photographs, we went along this weekend so see the changes. There have been  some pretty dramatic nature-born happenings. The entrance to my little den was completely blocked by a huge old tree, blown down by a storm. Sort of sad, but an old man who lives nearby had cleared the track itself so walkers could still do the walk to the village of Avoch, effort worth its use as he now has enough firewood for the next year or at least once it is not longer green. We have been along and collected some of the small limbs for kindling and there is plenty left to enrich the forest floor. The same storm had brought down several more trees.

I took a box of woodland wild flower seeds to scatter recently - a little pay back - and I shall start filling my hidden bird feeders soon. While due to lack of transport or wicked dark weather this summer, I have not been able to visit the track, I have been reading books on walks or walking (some of which are listed below and highly recommended).  I love finding writers that echo in their craft, the feeling I get from walking and being silent within the found ways, walks, woods, beaches;  the effortless meditation easily wrought.

I urge you to read the reviews  for both these books, for unlike my daughter, whose excellent reviews can be read at The Mountains of Instead, I lack the  skills to entice you. I will say I got very different things from each title; Robert Macfarlane writes exquisitely, he made me want to walk and walk and walk, as I did when young. I used to do midnight hikes across the Pentland Hills to Flotterstone and I have walked from Sligachan to Elgol. Now that I am less fit, these books both feed my yearning and my love of walking in the natural world. Mcfarlane sets out much as Laurie Lee did many years before, to just walk out. You can almost feel the crunch of his feet on snow or  hear the gentle squelch and feel the  slight tingle of fear as he finds his way along the edges of ancient mud flats. He follows ancient sea routes to St Kilda in the company of Ian Stephen, someone we knew well when we lived in the Outer Hebrides. In fact, he meets and talks to many folk we knew and counted as friends while living there, they share his interest and are very knowledgeable of routes and ways. McFarland writes with a tenderness and grace and in one place a certain terror; do read 'The Old Ways' if you can.

'The Idle Traveller', a smaller book, just urges one, in the nicest way possible way, to travel slowly. I agree with his premise that if we get there (wherever 'there' is) by plane, we are processed and really don't 'travel' at all, we are processed then arrive. Go by train, walk and listen... travelling need not be a chore, stressful to implement, but a joy of discovery and happenstance. Keiran, like so many philosophers and writers, helps us to know that the getting there can be just as worthwhile as the arrival, the more so for taking your time.

Golden reflections  near Loch Morlich

Now back to the old Railway line between Avoch and Fortrose. Slowly giving up its autumn secrets once more, a slow reveal. Above, the usually muddy rutted path on to the track is now covered by purest gold, pine needles. How wonderful if all that passes could have such a burst of glory before it dies.

Golden glory in decay, a bright portent of the rest to come.

What  a joy it is to talk a small child into the woods so a  blizzard of blown leaves falls, flits and fluttering  about her  yellow hair.
What a privilege it is that my father taught me to see and hear the wild world and to love  and cherish it. I fear there may be little to pass on but the memories of wild and stunning places. We are derelict in our caretaking, it is to our peril if we don't enjoy and protect.

Mila (whose name means 'Glory') walks on paths of gold, we gather kindling and memories.

The autumn song, the fanfare before rest, is the seasons' glory and delight. Walk, see and write prettier words than me, get out there, feel the leaves from the shaken branch dance about your head, simple pleasures for complex times.