It is the season of trees and their great transition into slumber. The wood that is our backdrop at the bottom of the valley is changing daily, as one species after the next begins to colour. First the hornbeam blazing yellow, then russet oak and the gold of poplar and, as the limbs become dark and leafless, an understory of sheltered hazel, holding on and flashing lemon in the shadows.

When we arrived here there were no trees on the slopes around the house, but the stillness of the open fields that surrounded us is now animated by those we have planted or let grow out from the hedges. Hawthorns that were hard grazed and beyond the reach of the farmer’s flail are now already making little trees and the hedgerows voluminous, revealing their true character. Blackthorn heavy with inky fruit and crimson rosehips arching outward and ready to pull at your hat if you stray too close.