To the West of my home, one third mile or thereabouts, is the most beautiful tree in the village. I should qualify and state that it is the most beautiful in Autumn and, as usual, this year it has turned a stunning red with sparse orange and yellow highlights. Every year on my way round the village of a Sunday morning some time around now, I will whimsically stoop and collect a few leaves before they are pulped by passing cars and cause hazard to cyclists. They soon dry out and lose their lustre but I gain a brief pleasure from them.
Last week's storm caused a certain amount of chaos locally. I needed four attempts before managing to leave the village early on Monday morning due to fallen trees and road closures, probably resulting from flooding or the works to prevent the same. I eventually found a narrow route round the major tree collapse; too small to be signed as a diversion. I finally emerged 20 metres beyond the road block, turning North against the stalled flow of delivery lorries waiting for the chains saws to complete their buzzing.
On Sunday we tested our resolve and strength against the gathering blow on the top of Hurst Spit. Minor rain storms swept through in minutes, damping us and adding an edge to the otherwise warm wind; spume blew over the spit into the salt-marsh; seas were two men high.
Pausing in the front garden this morning my eye was caught by a red leaf. The storm was near due West, I wonder if this year the tree came to us?
