The rain is not enough to disturb the surface of the water, but enough to refresh the grass. The grass is criss-crossed with a million fine cobwebs. The electricity wires are joined together with a cats' cradle of cobwebs, sparkling in the moist air.
In the hawthorn hedge swags of berries, now bright scarlet, gleam with moisture. Here and there, where the hawthorn grows through a holly bush, the scarlet berries mix with the still pale orange berries of the holly.
From a crabapple tree, leafless but laden with sour, yellow fruit, a flock of fieldfares and redwings take wing, their swooping flight and their tak-tak call identifies them through the fine mist of rain. They swoop across the meadow and settle in the leafless ash tree, clothing the bare branches as though with a fresh burst of foliage.
More tinselled cobwebs join together the rails of the wooden fencing and festoon the holly branches. On the topmost branch of the tallest holly a robin sings his crystal-clear song, advertising to the world that this is his patch and he will brook no incursion into it.
Swags of long-dead Old Man's Beard decorate the hedges and the long thorny stems of the dog rose, now a mass of orange hips. Further along a hazel tree advertises its presence by scattering its hazelnuts on the ground. A grey squirrel, startled by a sudden sound, sits up amongst the nuts, looks round, acknowledges my presence and then seeing nothing amiss, resumes its breakfast.
Overhead the sky is full of rooks making their way from Forty Acre Wood to their feeding grounds up the Dale. I cannot see them, they are too high up, but their voices are clearer than usual in the still, moist air.
The wetness clings like a blanket. There is no sound but that of the birds. Through the grass a brown hare makes his leisurely way across to the far side of the field. A deer grazes in a corner of the meadow, lifts her head, senses no danger, and lowers her head to continue feeding.
The damp has laid heavy on the last of the beech leaves and they have fallen to make a golden carpet under the tree. There will be warm days again before Winter sets in but the stage is set.
A thin wisp of smoke drifts across and the smell of a smouldering bonfire reaches me. Autumn has come overnight. The swallows have gone. The Winter visitors are here. Now we are waiting for the first North winds of Winter.