Autumn. Yes.

As the structures were left behind and the first lawn spread out, a broad and unusually lit view was revealed. In the sky a deep bank of cloud held grey from West to East with, below, a lighter band just beginning to leach a fringe of rain streaks. The ground was still well lit showing a condensed flock of seagulls to the right and sparse ponies in ones and twos munching on the wet grass to the left. The spattering of water on the windscreen coalesced and ran and the gloom deepened before the next stand of trees which held off the rising wind but pattered the road with loosened leaves and ripe seed cases.

Local traffic pulled off the road, delivering workmen and tools, out of my way before the next heath by which point the rain was meandering already across and along the road, reflecting light from the thinner cloud patches. Water on the heath had collected into pools divided by ditches and banks designed to prevent motoring ingress, forming a terraced effect that in other places might soon be seeded with rice. A robust red cow stood facing the road allowing its calf, standing with forelegs in the ditch to suckle comfortably. She watched me breeze by on the opposite gutter, unworried by the falling wet.

A left turn and my senses were briefly fooled by the lighter reflection under the wings of a descending crow; thinking it a larger raptor in this part frequented in previous years by a buzzard often standing on the grass, or swooping low under branches by the road. Another crow (maybe young) was disturbed from its perch as I barrelled by. The clouds looked ridged, rather than ragged, although hanging curtains of rain decorated the dark edges in a receding pattern, like stacked veils.

Before the trees approached the road, the junctions and bends, dips and concealing shadows I had time to watch the raindrops falling towards me. Straight and parallel, then buoyed up by the car's passage through the yielding air, curving upwards again to hit the screen or be swept over. Closer to my work, sun again cut through, low; making me squint at the junctions, making deep pools of darkness beneath boughs.

A pick a pen is not

Over a year into my experiments with plucked instruments and 8 months after investing in a mandolin that is actually playable I have learnt something about the right hand technique.

For all this time I have been holding the pick (the plectrum) as if it were a pen. All the illustrations of hands holding picks show the index finger tucked under, the pick against the first knuckle, but when I held a pick it was almost always near the tip of my finger and all the action was coming from the fingers, using the fine control muscles that I use for writing - wrong!

The action has to come from the wrist; the digits mere grips for the pick and, suddenly, striking two strings is possible.

This revelation followed some experimentation with different picks. For months I'd been using a 2mm large triangle. I bought a Dunlop Americana, some Ultex Vs, polycarb and nylon stubbies and the break through came with the 3mm stubby for some reason. I think it helped that I had been trying to strum more recently too. I had tried, with my old and incorrect technique to change the grip on the pick, but it wasn't really helping. Unfortunately I have a lot to unlearn now and find it difficult to play anything accurately. The sound is much better though, with less tightness, two strings and a better ring. The main improvement is an immediate introduction of rhythm; it is so much easier to space the notes with the whole hand moving. I had been struggling to join up a tapping foot with the finger movements.