Yesterday, as I often do if I have a quiet Sunday afternoon, I took a wander around Wybunbury Moss. It had been a misty day but it had cleared in places. The trees were shedding their leaves which have turned into a fine range of yellows, reds, oranges and golds. The last of the fruits and berries remain on the branches, yet to be picked by the birds. There were signs of badgers clearing out their setts, ready for winter and some of our colder-month visitors were passing through.
As I walked around my usual route, the sun dipped below the trees and the colder air began to sink into the hollow in which the Moss lies. The mist started to form once again and as the last of the light, an eerie silence fell on the landscape, the land-hugging clouds seeming to mask any sounds from outside.