We cross over the Gloucestershire border to tread our favourite walk. It is warm and blustery, but dark clouds loom in from the West country. We can see tendrils of rain falling, not a mile away; we are lucky and only have to shelter once.Most fields are ploughed now and autumn is setting in fast. But there are still swallows looping low, feeding on the storm flies brought in with the rain.
We reach the little stone built village and sigh over the pretty cottages, with their abundant gardens. Many have vegetable plots and we cast critical eyes over their crops, seeing what has worked for them that did not work for us - and vice versa.
There are shy brown trout in the shallow, clean river. They are barely discernable against the muddy bottom, and soon whisk themselves away when they become aware of our scrutiny. We too, are being watched.
High points - the trout and the swallows.
Low point - finding our footpath blocked by bellowing, anxious Fresians and turning back to retrace our walk, like the cowards we are.