On our way to Papworth for my next scan, we are not far from home and on the left is the River Stort sinuously snaking through the green fields.
I am "blown away by the colour in the hedgerows apart from the expected greens, golds and autumn browns there are bright yellows, oranges, pinks and reds, and all alongside our own English roads, free for anyone who cares to enjoy.
Oak leaves are yellowing and acorns beginning to thickly litter the ground beneath the mostly ancient trees. It has been a very good year for acorns. Whenever I see acorns laying thickly on the ground I think how wasted they are, as pigs would so enjoy tucking into them. Then I am reminded of how as a child, I used to collect sacks full of acorns, for the pigs belonging to a smallholder, who lived a mile or so from me down a pretty winding lane called Roundabout Lane. He much loved his pigs and would never pass them by without stopping to chat to them. Their sties were always immaculately clean and Mr. Dixon for that was his name, was obviously a kind and caring man.
It always felt magical to be sent to Mr. Dixons for eggs or to pick his fruit, my feet skipped along as I hurried to reach Roundabout Lane, then I slowed a little --- not a lot because my mother would be watching the clock and I would have to account for any minutes extra to what she thought I should have been. This was a twisty lane I was now wandering down, sometimes filled with puddles so large they were impossible to jump and I would be hard pressed to find a way round them without getting my shoes wet or muddy.
Once I was in the lane it cast its spell on me and I knew I was safe and nothing and no-one could harm me. The lane was best when the buttercups were in full bloom and so tall, they were at my waist level and I wished and wished next time I went, that they would be above my head and the ground underfoot dry so I could walk beneath them and look up at their golden heads. They never were that tall of course, but one dry, sunny, blue skied day I did what I had longed to do, and quickly walking off the lane and on to the buttercup filled verge I lay down amongst them and for a minute or two I was lost in another world of lanes with Enid Blyton names and buttercups towering over me. No sooner had I done it than I was up and running along to Mr. Dixons to make up for lost time. I still can capture the magic feeling of those stolen few moments under the golden buttercups.
There were very few houses down Roundabout Lane and those that were there, were so pretty which added to the enchantment, I always wanted to know what was at the end of Roundabout Lane, of course I could now find out, but part of me feels it might be better not to know.
Anyway back to the present, hawthorn leaves are yellowing and falling, leaving dark red berries hanging in ones, twos and small clusters, ready for the birds to feast upon. As a child I collected and ate these berries on my way to do the shopping, I knew them as bread and cheese.
Bright red rose hips hang showily, brightening up the hedge rows.
We are startled to pass a house whose trees in the garden are decked in coloured lights, huge decorated artificial fir trees tower over the gate and on the side wall an enormous glittering notice wishes us "A Merry Christmas".
The other side of Royston where the land lies flat and one can see for miles, I notice the chalky fields have a whitish hue and the trees in them are still mainly green with touches of brown and yellow.
The Rowan trees are almost bereft of berries and past Kneesworth trees are once again all shades of yellow and green. There are large fields of brassicas on the left and an apple orchard with the bright red apples still clinging to the leafless branches.
Everywhere is so bright and beautiful, the sky is blue, dappled with clouds and the sun is strongly shining. Toward Papworth Everard trees are almost bereft of leaves and everywhere looks tired and browner.
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