In Friday's Footsteps

I have always been fascinated by the glimpses of one season in another, the cold days in summer that make me think of crumpets, the warm deceptive days in March. Today we were up on the hill gathering firewood against the winter, and there were large patches of red/gold in the horse chestnut trees.  They have also started producing tiny conkers.  Our neighbours' view of the hill has larger patches of autumnal colour in it, something they have been aware of for a few days.  At the very top of the hill, the fence around the quarry has been overgrown with brambles and there are plump juicy blackberries in amongst the nettles and rose-bay willow herb.  I stood at the top and looked up to Kington and then round to Clee Hill, 40 miles away, and then round to the Radnor Forest and on into Wales.  The top of the hill is being cleared and then blasted in the autumn, so the fence and blackberries and 50 feet of hillside - bracken, trees, grass - will go.  A strange thought.  We have been gathering as much firewood as we can, and today I saw a piece of cut wood with nails in; a new piece, in all probability left by the professional woodsmen who were there in the spring.  But I am not used to seeing signs of other people up there, and it was as startling as seeing Man Friday's footprints on Crusoe's deserted beach.