Burning tree...

Every year, this small tree in the car park of Benmore Gardens turns this wonderful pink gold long before most of the other trees have begun to change. The afternoon had turned gloomy by the time I took this, and I think it lights up the grey.

Somehow the autumn arrived in the fortnight while I was away: we left in warm sunshine and summer clothes (I think that's quite a nice zeugma) and came home to a bedroom temperature of just above 60ºF (I just checked; it's an old thermometer). I'm not ready for winter yet, and hope the promise of warmer air by the weekend holds good. 

Meanwhile the news becomes more bizarre by the day, and Margaret Attwood's words a dire warning. Will today's judgement by the Scottish court prevail, or will the scoffing of Downing Street prove to be the reaction of a new dictator? I keep thinking, not of Gilead, but of Oliver Cromwell - the whole order of things being overturned. It has ceased to be surprising; now it fills me with gloom and anger. And still this glib talk about the will of the people  ...

I could always retire to cultivate my garden - or, in my case, walk in the beauties of Benmore - but I doubt my own ability to shut off. That burning tree is more of a symbol than I thought at the time.