A Walk in Late November.

The day dull and silent under heavy mist. Fingers tingling in cold damp air. Skeletal trees standing stark in half tone against a pallid grey void. No movement save a single squirrel seeking anonymity behind a torpid tree.

In the style of JP Donleavy

(I sometimes wonder whether the time of year into which we are born has a deeply ingrained effect on our perceptions of reality.)

But one lighted vehicle stopped beside me on Green Lane. The driver asked for directions to Home Farm, which were freely and easily given. He continued on his way alone, as did I.