Devil's Spit

I went down to the woods today - Badock's Wood, to be exact. It's just over a mile from my home and one of my favourite places in Bristol, for although it's on the edge of a council estate, it's sunk in its own mini ravine which the sound of traffic rarely penetrates.  

Ted loves it too.

I used to visit the wood a lot during the last couple of years of my damaging marriage, and it always made me feel a little better.  I'd take photos of the wood from certain spots in all seasons, whether there was snow, fog, rain, frost or brilliant sunshine, though the thing that strikes me now is not the changes in the weather and seasons but in the quality of light.  The darkest time of the year is deepest summer; the brightest those short dark days of winter when snow lies on the ground.

My season is autumn, my month October, and I think I like the wood best now, when there is still a lot of summer greenery to contrast with the show-offy foliage of trees already forging into fall.  (That is, apart from high autumn when it's all fireworks and glory. And that beautiful slide into winter, the last few branches still clinging to their glad rags.)

Even the blackberries tasted good, despite the Devil having spat on them a few days ago now.  

'Stop maundering and throw the ball' says Ted.