September Aspens

Almost all the leaves have fallen from the local aspens in the past week (I keep wanting to refer to them as "my" aspens I feel so bonded to them).  Tall and majestic their nearly-bare silver branches reach high and wide to touch the sky.  My heart lifts when they come into view. 

We slide definitively into autumn, but here at its true onset it is a kind season.  A warm west wind, high clouds and the bluest of blue skies. I generally meet at least one dog walker on my morning walk but today I was almost alone. Just a solitary jogger in the distance on the cycle path alongside the railway.  So I could take  photographs without feeling too conspicuous since I'm shy about snapping in public. 

There has been a shift in my recovery recently. For the better. The details aren't for the blog - at least not yet - but something has changed.  It will still be slow though.  Quietly hopeful.

Grey-green

It had rained heavily overnight but in the warmth of July the paths were already dry by the time I set out for the morning walk.  No sun though, grey and overcast, and you had to pay attention and look for the things that make you catch your breath, that make you happy. I'm trying to make a point each day on my walk to find something that does exactly that.  I would almost term it a spiritual practice but that's far too formal and solemn and not what the exercise is about. Today it was the soft, muted grey-green of the trees (willow, rowan, sycamore) bordering the river. 
 
The start of the river path is marked by a group of three tall and majestic aspens. (I do love the French word for the tree: le tremble).   Is it fanciful to say that these trees have an aura?  Well, too bad because they do.  The leaves rustle and quiver, whispering, at the slightest hint of a breeze. I draw breath and relax a bit each time I enter the glade.

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It's Tour de France time again!  I'm a fan. This year it's starting in Yorkshire no less, and ITV4 is as usual doing us proud with its coverage.  I have to admit I watch as much for the fabulous scenery as for the finer points of the race itself but there is just enough jingoism left in me to hope, probably vainly, for a British win.  More than that though I hope that the race is clean.