AND SO THEY DROVE their house again to a new place. As the hills pulled up their autumn hoods and leaned into the wet winds of October, one of the hills wore a Bedford as its hat, and smoke rose like hill-thoughts from the chimney. From there they could see for miles all around and began to think about wintering. The walk to town is even further now, and the wet lanes are spotted artists' palettes of umber and ochre. They are busy, with paintings and woodworkings and visitings and doings and proppings of back wheels on slopes and under-stackings of wood for colder days. There will be more news when the camera-that-takes-black-photos has been fixed! And Rima says thank you for many many kind birthday wishes.
Meanwhile pheasants with autumned feathers strut by the crisscross windows and cock-a-doodles welcome their wet grassed mornings. When the nights come in, earlier now, they can see the grey layers of faraways blackening as the sun goes down, all dotted with lights as people Over There kick off boots in porches of warm houses and begin their imagined evenings.