Overhead, only the ash trees keep hold of their green canopy, although it is now a thinner, translucent green, as the light appears to shine through it. Bunches of dried grey-brown keys hang almost lifeless from the branches. Fluttering in the breeze, the cascading leaves of silver birch have become shimmering fountains of gold in the sunlight. In comparison, the few leaves that remain on a nearby horse chestnut, are brown and scrunched and the last of its heavily encased fruit hangs from an almost bare branch.
A gentle breeze disturbs the fallen leaves of a giant beech, sending them rolling and swirling lazily along the woodland floor. It seems incredible that a single tree can consist of so many leaves. Looking up into its huge canopy, they are a mix of shades, from their original green to a deep burning copper. The thick, smooth grey trunk divides into three massive limbs, any one of which would make a respectable tree. These divide again and again, the branches reaching up and out before gently curving under the tremendous weight. Empty husks of beech mast lie amongst the leaves and all around more pitter-patter to the ground.
Soft red fruit decorate the yew, bright red berries ornament holly and deep red haws dot the hawthorn, although they have now aged and lost their fresh lustre. A few elder branches still droop with the weight of bunches of shiny dark purple-black berries, while duller black fruit hang from dogwood and the blackthorn hangs onto its displays of purple-black sloes. The remains of fruit adhere to brambles, a few bright berries amongst the majority, now dried and shrivelled. Country wisdom has it that trees heavy with berries are a sign of a hard winter to come. Although, the abundance of berries has more to do with the preceding months than the succeeding ones, I would not be surprised to find a hard winter ahead.
The random path winds between thick green patches of dogs mercury, the only greenery visible on the woodland floor carpeted with fallen leaves and empty seed husks. The earth is cool and damp and gives off a rich, heady aroma of over-ripeness and decay as the thick humus is kicked over. It is an aroma that belongs only to woodland in the autumn.
The path is lost beneath the thick layer of leaves, and my footfalls noisily snap dozens of dry twigs, causing birds to suddenly take to the air. Wood pigeons flap noisily as they struggle to get their massive bulks airborne, while great tits erupt from a thick belt of brambles. A movement to my right draws my attention to two roe deer that stop their browsing, suddenly aware that they are not alone, then take off noiselessly, stealthily, yet unhurriedly through the trees, as though either sensing that I pose little threat or assessing my lack of athletic prowess. A glimpse of turned heads is followed by a flash of white under tail, then they are lost from sight amongst the dense growth of trees. I listen for their movement but all I hear is the breeze in the canopy.
An expansive stand of whitebeam share not a single leaf between them. Instead, they form a dense carpet of pale and dark brown, an intricate sepia mosaic that rustles and crackles beneath my feet and constantly shifts as the breeze rearranges the pieces. Here the woodland is open and airy, enclosed by a linear bank that may have once designated a long forgotten boundary, beyond which the beech take over and the woodland is in shade again.