A brisk but sunny December day and only a few hours of daylight left. We were off to explore a new walk in a favourite area nearby. It starts here, with a helpful footpath pointer, past sweeping fields and sparse headed trees -
- to scrubby estate woodland and down to a rough crossroads, breaking into a stretch of our usual walk. This is not just any old muddy track though: this is the still used remnant of a straight Roman road, Akeman Street. It goes on ahead through here...
...and up to fields, where it stretches along for about half a mile.
To the left of us, down in the valley, we saw that our old walk - which takes us through softly rolling grassland - was flooded. In summer, we meander alongside the river, which has now breached its banks and spilled over into the pasture.
Reaching the end of this pathway, and looking into the heart of the vale. Under the little stone bridge, the water is flowing strong and deep - four feet, Andy thought, though it is so clean and clear it is difficult to judge.
In a few minutes, this gently rippling silver ribbon will reach the water logged valley we had been viewing earlier.
On the level, looking across from the bridge.
A spectacular beech clump overlooked us as we continued along a lazily winding stone road, our cold nostrils catching the scent of fresh flood water.
Here we said goodbye to Akeman Street; it is not part of this modern path, but cuts through in ruthless, military fashion, across fields, on its way to the Roman town of Cirencester, once the second most important town of the Empire, after London. Here the old road is just visible as a disappearing indentation going up the grassy slope and into the the trees.
A little gateway intersecting the wall indicates that this time trodden route is still used today.
We crossed over to a pastoral hummock of grazing sheep, to begin rounding off our journey.
At this point we found that 'someone' had blocked the footpath - twice - which we intend to report to the relevant authorities. Crossing through silage munching cattle, we had to duck over (Andy) and under (me) barbed wire, where there should clearly have not only been footpath signs, but at the very least, unencumbered access from field to field.
Dark clouds beat across the skies, but only a few drops scattered over us. The showers raced over to descend on Burford, a few miles over the way.
The sinking sun threw long shadows and the fading golden light illuminated the brights of winter bare woods and lichen. We were following a snaking trail, progressing towards a distant beech grove, seen on the horizon.
It had appeared to be a warm purpley brown from half a mile away, but as we drew nearer and the sun caught the tips of the last scraps of foliage, it glowed a warm copppery orange.
Now we were on the last leg of our walk, past farmlands and free range pigs, who were happily rootling around in chilly mud. In the blue distance, the neighbouring county of Wiltshire and another ancient route, the Ridgeway were just visible and somewhere (although unseen) the Uffington White Horse. It is good to be able to place yourself within a landscape - one day we may be over there, looking across to over here. 
The best walks are full circles, and after nearly three hours of tramping we were very glad to see the back of our trusty bike waiting patiently for us. And the remembrance of coffee cake waiting at home.
A new walk in the next county, on a dull, foggy day. We set off up this path and, turning round, the view of the avenue was very pleasing. Everywhere was hushed and there was little life around. A buzzard crying in the clouds, crows fussing about as crows do. 
Our Ordnance survey map and the footpath sign indicated that we should walk on the other side of this wall, which we dutifully did. A notice rather pompously announced that the landowners 'welcome careful walkers'...
...although as we battled to stay to the mapped footpath (and with no indications of an alternative route) I cursed that 'walkers welcome considerate landowners'. We had to slide and tiptoe along this narrow ridge, through slashed bramble bushes and down landslips. 
At last we got back to walkable terrain and had our usual discussion about pylons. Andy hates them. I have a fondness for them; they remind me of alien invaders marching along the landscape - and they do look rather magnificent disappearing into the mist. 
Despite a paucity of footpath signs, we made the halfway point, a glowing tunnel along the side of a beech copse.
Looking over the drystone wall to a fat cottage nestling in the fields.
Faroff in the adjoining field, the farmer is cutting the hedges back.
Not all Cotswolds farms look as if they have sprung from an old picture book. This one was very industrial and properous; there was a well-run atmosphere and the farm dogs (of whom we are usually wary) sat obediently on their own on a quad bike, although they kept a beady eye on us. 
Even though we are descending rapidly into winter, there are signs that spring is not too far off. The sheep are being tupped - this bunch seem to have been 'done', by the stains on their rumps. One day next year we will return and enjoy the sight of lambs tumbling about these same fields.
In the opposite field, we spotted two rams, each wearing a harness, which holds the raddle - a marking powder which transfers itself from the holder on the rams chest, onto the rump of the tupped ewe. It only takes a few seconds, as we witnessed while we stood there, drinking our hot chocolate. But then, they have a lot of ewes to get through.
In the next field, the ladies got quite militant - although at first they trotted off, they then stopped and formed a long, defensive line, watching us as we passed. It crossed my mind for a second that we might be the first people in the Cotswolds to be trampled by sheep. You can almost hear them bleating a unifed 'chaarrrrge!' 
But of course, they didn't. And I was soon distracted by this gorgeous shepherd hut, rather like the ones I covet on this site, Cotswold Shepherd huts. There was a similar one displayed at a local garden centre and they are beautifully restored, inside and out, with sweet little woodburners and snug bunk beds. Oh, to have one of these in your back garden!
The afternoon was drawing to a close and we were nearly at the village which marked the end of our walk. The light was dying and the clouds were lowering.
At some point as we got to the outskirts, we got split up; Andy had strode ahead and, dawdling behind, I followed a footpath sign instead of taking the lane and got side tracked.
But there were compensations, such as being able to have a discreet nosy at lovely houses -
- and magnificent topiary. I could smell other people's woodburners wafting up on the cold air and had a yearning to be in our own little cottage with a warm fire bustling away. Where was Andy? 
He was bringing the motorbike up the road, ready to whisk me off. It is lovely to go out, and even nicer to return home.
Autumn's gold is turning grey. And when the Cotswolds are overcast, they are very gloomy indeed. But, rain or shine, exercise (albeit brief) must be taken. So we popped over to the woods for a quick leg stretcher.
Despite the dark skies, the central beech grove glows; it is as if we are standing in a copper lit temple, held up by the very trees themselves. Further on into the birch woodland, things become tangled and dank; skeletal twigs scratchily rustling in the damp breeze. The air smells earthy and moist - a clean, woodsy aroma as nature gently rots.
We have had such little rainfall that the fungi season has been set right back. Usually our woods can display around 250 varieties of fungi. Today we could not count them on one hand. We found one large bewigged fellow, somewhat munched on.
An ear fungus, pristine and glistening. 
And, barely noticeable, tiny pinheads scattered over a rotting trunk. 
There is someone having his lunch in there. He is only one centimetre long, but he is a devouring giant to these little snowballs.
From a spyhole on the edge of the woods, we see that more rain is coming in from the west. Time to go home. Time for hot chocolate and to search the cake tin for leftovers.
Today we lit the woodburner for the first time since Spring. 
A brisk but sunny December day and only a few hours of daylight left. We were off to explore a new walk in a favourite area nearby. It starts here, with a helpful footpath pointer, past sweeping fields and sparse headed trees -
- to scrubby estate woodland and down to a rough crossroads, breaking into a stretch of our usual walk. This is not just any old muddy track though: this is the still used remnant of a straight Roman road, Akeman Street. It goes on ahead through here...
...and up to fields, where it stretches along for about half a mile.
To the left of us, down in the valley, we saw that our old walk - which takes us through softly rolling grassland - was flooded. In summer, we meander alongside the river, which has now breached its banks and spilled over into the pasture.
Reaching the end of this pathway, and looking into the heart of the vale. Under the little stone bridge, the water is flowing strong and deep - four feet, Andy thought, though it is so clean and clear it is difficult to judge.
In a few minutes, this gently rippling silver ribbon will reach the water logged valley we had been viewing earlier.
On the level, looking across from the bridge.
A spectacular beech clump overlooked us as we continued along a lazily winding stone road, our cold nostrils catching the scent of fresh flood water.
Here we said goodbye to Akeman Street; it is not part of this modern path, but cuts through in ruthless, military fashion, across fields, on its way to the Roman town of Cirencester, once the second most important town of the Empire, after London. Here the old road is just visible as a disappearing indentation going up the grassy slope and into the the trees.
A little gateway intersecting the wall indicates that this time trodden route is still used today.
We crossed over to a pastoral hummock of grazing sheep, to begin rounding off our journey.
At this point we found that 'someone' had blocked the footpath - twice - which we intend to report to the relevant authorities. Crossing through silage munching cattle, we had to duck over (Andy) and under (me) barbed wire, where there should clearly have not only been footpath signs, but at the very least, unencumbered access from field to field.
Dark clouds beat across the skies, but only a few drops scattered over us. The showers raced over to descend on Burford, a few miles over the way.
The sinking sun threw long shadows and the fading golden light illuminated the brights of winter bare woods and lichen. We were following a snaking trail, progressing towards a distant beech grove, seen on the horizon.
It had appeared to be a warm purpley brown from half a mile away, but as we drew nearer and the sun caught the tips of the last scraps of foliage, it glowed a warm copppery orange.
Now we were on the last leg of our walk, past farmlands and free range pigs, who were happily rootling around in chilly mud. In the blue distance, the neighbouring county of Wiltshire and another ancient route, the Ridgeway were just visible and somewhere (although unseen) the Uffington White Horse. It is good to be able to place yourself within a landscape - one day we may be over there, looking across to over here. 
The best walks are full circles, and after nearly three hours of tramping we were very glad to see the back of our trusty bike waiting patiently for us. And the remembrance of coffee cake waiting at home.
