Through a gap in the hedge, the sloping paddocks of a Commoner`s farm shone lush and green.
Young beeches grew straight and close together, while the old parent trees stood in their own spaces and rose taller, reaching towards the light.
Even when branches were bare, new buds shone against the sky, waiting for winter to pass.
Deep in the shelter of this wooded valley, some held their leaves a while longer.
Out along the streamside path, bog myrtle glowed a coppery bronze against the duller browns of heather and the damp, rusty bracken on the heath.
Holly by the bridge.....
...and a trickling fall of peat stained water dripped and splashed into a draining stream.
The path not travelled. This was far enough for Old Dog and his arthritic legs, so we turned back here and climbed up the hill towards home.
Light was falling over the heath....
....but the sun came out, enough to catch silver birch bark where woodpeckers drill to feed on a crumbling tree stump.........
.....and enough to light patches of gold on the beech leaf carpet crunching beneath our feet.