Wolsingham, Weardale: The day is fading fast and last night’s frost is still in the air. A stretch of hazel hedge provides a brief reminder that we don’t just live one season at a time

Old single-species hedges are usually hawthorn or blackthorn: prickly, dense, stockproof. This one, beside the footpath, is almost pure hazel, planted along a 200‑yard boundary embankment of rocks cleared from the field, long ago. More than a hundred multi‑stemmed trees, regularly spaced with gaps wide enough for a flock of sheep to wander through. A ribbon of lemon yellow and gold autumn foliage, flickering in the late afternoon sunlight.

When I reach the end of the pasture, I turn uphill, then down, under a tunnel of overhanging branches, into the shelter of a sunken lane that I haven’t explored before; a holloway worn by centuries of scuffing boots, hooves and cartwheels. The air, heavy with the sweet aroma of fungal decay, is still chilled from last night’s frost. It’s quiet, peaceful, just the distant “chacking” of a flock of jackdaws, the rustle of falling leaves, rippling water over the ford at the bottom of the hill. No human noise. Timeless. It feels like a portal into the past.