Burning man

A day of much walking and now six tired legs are taking their ease.

I headed off to score some late damsons (bullaces really) at a ruined farm I know that's way off the beaten track. I took a circular route to include fields, woods, valley and upland, it being a perfect September day: warm, sunny and a little bit hazy.

I found the derelict church, usually locked, was unexpectedly accessible and I stopped to take many pictures of the interior; I was pursued by nine horses; I passed through dappled woodland turning shades of gold and bronze; I found the ruined farm was even more ruined than before, roofless in fact; the fruit trees there are wizened, shrivelled, gnarled and knotted like the centenarians of the Andes but, like them, still productive: I trudged home with three kilos of fruit.

I only met only one person all day , the man tending this fire where some maintenance work had taken place (and he was no bright spark.) I chose to blip this image out of many because the smell of the fire hung heavy over the valley and seemed so redolent of the season, and because smoke, unlike old buildings, is so ephemeral. Also, the timeless autumn scene reminded me of the paintings of John Constable - a sort of cross between this one and this one maybe.

No time for comments tonight. Will try to catch up tomorrow. As well as making jam.