Why do holidays speed past … so … darn … fast? Is it a plot? Evil magic? A little time spent strolling about Bath, Stroud, Gloucester and Nailsworth and most of the week was gone.
Three days gallivanting through the Forest of Dean and along the Wye Valley and it had been gobbled up altogether.
Lovely walk, mind you. What’s not to like about walking through a wood? Especially at this time of the year when leaf mould and wet soil conjure up the warm rich aroma of a fruit cake.
OK, so we had one long, unremitting day of trudging besides the Wye, from Chepstow to Monmouth, in non-stop rain. Sixteen miles of muttering, “*@***#** stupid idea” and “Where’s the bleedin’ Pub?” Rain dripped from our noses and onto the map. Water filled our supposedly waterproof boots and penetrated our supposedly waterproof coats. Glorious views were restricted by hoods and instead we looked at the muddy path before our feet. (I took no photos that day).
It would be churlish though to moan too much when, on the other two days, bright sunlight lit up the fiery magnificence of a late, warm autumn.
The Forest of Dean is enormous and we walked for hours (and hours and hours) through a stunning (if quiet) landscape dominated by oak and beech.
We had the paths mostly to ourselves – especially when we strayed off route and got lost. This happened quite a lot. (You may call me Pathfinder. But I wouldn’t. As patently, I’m not).
I’m back at work now and overwhelmed by how much there is to do. The big, beautiful tulip tree (Liriodendron tulipfera) has turned it’s signature yellow and …
… pretty much all the lawns are smothered in leaf-fall. There is simply too much to do. Collecting of leaves and transporting out to the compost bins, mowing, cutting back of perennials and more planting. So very much to do.
I’ve decided the answer is to ignore it; lock myself in the greenhouse with two pink, potted pelargoniums. I’ll come out again in March. Or April.
(Sorry about the spacing on this post – blogger refuses to do as it’s told. As usual).