I am still amazed that Wales stays mostly green all year round. At home the plants dry and the grass loses its vibrant green color. Fall here is nothing compared to the wooded mountains in Pennsylvania, but it does have pockets of brilliant color, tucked away in inspiring places. My walk today is my first proper outing since I've returned to Caerleon and completed the first part of the MFA degree in Photography. I decide to walk on the other side of the village, the one I usually only see from the bus.
The hedge rows have been growing and no one has been by to trim them it seems. The last black berries are clinging to the bushes and the hawthorn berries have lost their bright red hue. I try to pick out the changes I notice since my last visit in May. The large gate between the houses is open to the walking path and the field is ahead of me, beyond that St. Julian's Wood.
The wooden gate thuds to a close behind me. I have been here many times now, and I wonder why I did not wear better shoes. The paths coming down the mountain are slick and muddy, and I am prepared only in spirit. It is cool and windy, but the woods smell fresh and all the plants are overgrown. Many places which I frequently photographed in the spring are securely hidden beneath towering ferns and unruly vines. I move on, leaving those places undisturbed for another day when I am wearing my rubber boots.