It was raining. Hard. As I drove past the playing fields, I wondered whether to pull into a side road and ring Son the Younger to see if he still wanted to meet up for a walk at Leigh Woods. Then I looked at the glorious colour of the trees even in the downpour, against charcoal clouds, and decided to press on. He'd be there waiting.
And he was, though the rain forced a change of route, away from the exposed path along the side of the Avon and over to Stokeleigh camp instead, which we could reach under cover of the trees. We're not completely mad.