It is bloody hard to run.
As I found yesterday when hauling myself round the length of the cycle path, and the somewhat dispiriting haul from the old British Gypsum place across to Sconce Hills.
I was proud of having outpaced a couple of teenage lads training for some vaguely militaristic looking exercise with their rucksacks and boots, but after a few miles I was flagging rather badly in the late afternoon early autumn unexpectedly frazzling sun.
The butterflies weren't flagging, a few of them had popped out for a final frolic before hibernation or death in a few days time. Whites, the sturdy Red Admirals, and unexpectedly a few speckled woods! All doing better than I was.
My neighbours bird feeders are attracting some chubby squirrels. Their much vaunted intelligence seems to be belied by the fact they haven't put any nuts in them yet.
The neighbours that is, not the squirrels.
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