The sloes hang, pendulous and ripe. Their purple-black skins frosted with white. On this, the first day of meteorological autumn.
Drinkers converse, on the benches outside The Royal Oak, clad in their warm woolen jumpers. To ward off a certain chill, which lingers in the midday air, despite the efforts, of splashes of sunshine, to drive it away. It is that lingering north east wind at work.
An egret stalks, in a rill, as the tide drains away. . . . .
. . . . leaving the mill high and dry.
Blackberries ripen in the hedgerows. . . . .
. . . . . leading to the quiet waterside lane, anomalously named Langstone High Street.
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