Time to get my passport out again, for another venture into the neighbouring county!

Usksider reminded me in his recent post that it's National Tree Week. So, I thought I'd post this image of a beech avenue at Kingston Lacy, near Wimborne Minster in Dorset. It was taken a few weeks ago, just before sunset. I hope he approves of the natural framing

The avenue was planted in the 1830s, and originally had 365 specimens. Some of the trees have now died, and the National Trust has planted a second avenue of young trees further from the road. I don't think it will be up to much in my lifetime - but perhaps my offspring will be able to enjoy it.

The first frosty night is always a bit of an event for me, presaging winter for real. So, when I saw a light dusting of rime on the fallen leaves this morning, a small shiver ran down my spine. But now it is quite glorious: brilliant blue sky and the few leaves still on the acer blazing like a bonfire.

Yesterday I had an "if only I had a video camera" moment*. One of the pheasants had flown up onto the bird table to see what was left, and surprised a squirrel about to try his luck with the peanut feeder. They faced each other off for ten or twenty seconds, then the squirrel lunged forwards and frightened the bird away. Priceless!

* The only other time was when I visited Chancer (the pony) in the field one summer's day, and he was fast asleep on his side in the sunshine, dreaming. Did you know that horses dream, just like cats and dogs? His eyeballs were rolling under the eyelids, hooves twitching, tail swishing, and lips wrinkling. Dogs dream of chasing rabbits; cats dream of catching mice: what do horses dream of? Being chased by predators, probably. Like most prey animals, they live in a state of perpetual alertness, if not controlled fear.

I need some new batteries for my point-and-shoot camera, so I am painting a word picture for you today, instead.

An early morning walk - the air cool but clear. In the east, a strew of high dappled clouds above a clear brightening horizon, and to the west, the earth's blue-grey shadow is being chased down the sky by a rose-pink band.

The dawn clouds slowly turn from brown, through crimson and neon orange to yellow, then fade to white as the sun rises. A few tiny puffs of lower cloud cast dark radiating shadows on the higher ones, like reverse sunrays.

Looking over the sea, Venus is nestling down in her bed of fluffy pink clouds, after a busy night shining on the dark land, and a fat crescent moon sails above her in the mid-blue sky.

As it lightens, I can see that every grass blade is decorated with a tiny dewdrop, and discordantly, three planes heading south for the winter, leaving hard contrails across the fractal beauty of the clouds.

I stand still and shut my eyes to concentrate for a moment or two. I can small the richness of damp earth and fallen leaves, and feel s slight breeze on my face. A rural soundscape too: twittering finches zipping overhead; a distant cock pheasant; gulls and rooks calling to their chums in the barley field, and the stockman at Shapwick hallooing in the cows for milking.

Again, the modern world obtrudes with the steadily gathering whoosh of distant traffic, and as I round the corner of the house at 7, the whump of the burner as the boiler fires up. Home!

Time to put the kettle on for a cuppa, and start making the porridge...