It looks so dramatic. The valley at this time of year. Mist settles on the hills, a few golden leaves cling stubbornly to the deciduous trees and the sun never seems to shine. The whiff of smokey bonfires linger in the air. Cold, wet and gothic.
Unwanted apples sit forlornly on the trees, and little birds feast on the forgotten fruit. Or they'll fall to the ground where worms and bugs will finish them off. Shrivelled blackberries are dotted along the brambles and stick to my tights as I scramble along the hedge. And bright red rose hips look so pretty glistening in the fading autumn light.
Autumn's last gasp.