A Dull Woman's Van Life

Late October 2025

Autumn Rain

Heavy, it falls — long silver threads,

That stitch the earth to sky o’erhead.

Trees bow low, light grows dim,

As clouds spill o’er the valley’s rim.

The early part of the week has been wet. The crisp carpet of autumn leaves has turned to mush beneath my boots, the ground soft and yielding, the long grass soaking my legs as I wander the hills. The air hangs heavy with the scent of rain and earth.

Across the valley, the cows call mournfully, their low voices carried on the wind as they search for shelter from the relentless rain. The trees, stripped bare by recent gales, offer little comfort — their black branches stand like bones against a pewter sky.

Wildlife, too, had retreated. The usual chorus of birds has fallen silent, the hedgerows still and watchful. Only the occasional flutter betrays a robin darting for cover, or a quick flash of a white tail vanishing into the bracken. It feels as though the land itself is holding its breath, waiting, as we all are, for a break in the weather and the return of fairer skies, or crisp, frosty mornings.

By Wednesday, the rain had finally subsided, and the early morning was brighter than it had been for some time. Venus shone brilliantly in the east before fading into the pale sky as the sun rose.

On the lower slopes, a herd of deer foraged through the wet grass, and a fox crossed our path — a brief, russet flash gone too quickly for a photograph, as I clung to an overexcited Pepper.

The garden birds are busier now, gathering what they can and making good use of the seed feeders as they prepare for the leaner months ahead. Their constant flutter and chatter bring life to the still-damp mornings.

Later in the day, I walked the path along the old railway line. Jackdaws were loudly chattering in the bare trees, their sharp calls echoing through the quiet afternoon.

A dipper splashed in the river below, and a heron watched our passing from the trees above the lodge — motionless, regal.

High on the chimney, a lone cormorant surveyed the landscape, its dark form framed against a clear, blue sky.

The clocks will go back this coming weekend. I don’t know if it’s psychosomatic, but I always feel more in tune with the day during these months — as though my natural rhythm belongs to this time, not to the long, drawn-out days of BST.

I relish the early starts, when the world is still wrapped in silence and it’s just me, Pepper and nature awake together. There’s something grounding about those dark, quiet mornings — the soft crunch of leaves underfoot, the breath of mist rising from the fields, the faint stirrings of birds unseen in the hedgerows, as we all wait for the sun to rise.

For a while, the mornings will be lighter for a while, until the slow ease into winter shortens the days once more — when the lamps glow by mid-afternoon, and the sun makes only a brief appearance; shining for six short hours before retreating again beyond the hills with its fiery blaze sinking into the cold blue dusk.

Halloween waits just around the corner, and before long the solstice will be upon us — that fleeting hinge of the year when darkness begins to loosen its hold, and the light slowly returns.