Paths: Edge of Autumn

There are moments in the year when the landscape quietly reminds us that change can be both certain and graceful. Early autumn is one of them.

The wind lifts through the trees, carrying with it the first true breath of autumn.

From our back door into the Weald, the forest gently shifts with the season. Hawthorn berries ripen red, sloes darken, beech leaves turn and hornbeam leaves begin to fall. Chestnuts swell in their burrs. Buzzards and kites work hard in the blustery sky. Deer scatter and pheasants lift suddenly as I approach with my dog.

What first looks like broken branches reveals itself as a traditional fedge – a reminder of careful management of these woods.

Whatever my worries are, the small and the broader, whatever horrors weigh on the world, I realise I cannot influence them here among the trees and over the downs. I am lifted by the thought: just as I cannot influence them, they cannot influence me.

The woods don’t rush; they offer perspective and rhythm. Perhaps that’s why I return so often.

I’m not embarrassed to admit I hug a majestic beech and rest a hand on a very old ash, one of the survivors of die-back in this forest, and in that moment I feel connected, safe and at ease.

Paths is a series of notes and reflections gathered on walks from the workshop and home - through the Weald, the forest and the downs. It follows the slow changes of the landscape through the seasons: the trees, the light, the shifting colours and textures that quietly shape how I see and make. These walks steady me; they remind me to move at nature’s pace, to notice more, and to let the work grow from that calm attentiveness.