Downstream from Blanchland bridge there were signs that the countryside was settling into autumn. In gardens on the edge of the village newly harvested onions had been left to dry in the early morning sun. A gentle rain of yellow birch leaves, spinning as they fell, settled on a footpath that was flanked by angelica umbels, and hogweed seeds festooned with dew-bedecked spider webs.
Some stretches of the river, where the lowering arc of the sun fell below the crowns of pines on the far bank, would not be warmed again by direct sunlight until spring.
It was here, in the deep shade, that we were reminded of one aspect of autumn; that lingering chill of a cold night which triggers involuntary shivers and turns exhaled breath to steam.
We lengthened our stride, keeping pace with the river that slid along beside us with barely a ripple before finding its voice as it tumbled over rocks creating swirling vortices that swept piles of dead leaves into the tangled roots of bankside alders.
Then, as we emerged into an area of grassy heath, with scattered birches, gorse, and willowherb releasing a blizzard of downy seed, we felt warmth on our faces again. At the top of a slope we sat in the sun, scattering meadow grasshoppers as we lowered ourselves on to the rabbit-grazed turf.
Drifts of devil’s-bit scabious, whose tall powder-blue inflorescences studded with pink stamens were now the best available nectar source, attracted the last butterflies of summer. The plants’ clientele of peacocks settled almost within touching distance, but it was a fast moving scintilla of fiery orange, zigzagging up the slope towards us, that captured our attention.
The small copper butterfly, carrying its colours like an emissary of autumn, flitted from flower to flower then settled in the grass almost at my elbow. I could see worn patches on the edge of its wings where it had shed scales. For a few moments it basked in the sun, then was gone, lost among trees whose leaves would soon switch to the colour of its wings.
