There's a special magic to late autumn. The leaves are faded glories, stark thorny under-structures now revealed beneath. A mist clings to the last vestiges of greenery, verdant moss claiming its place on old pock-marked brick-work.
We're at Packwood House walking through the kitchen garden. Guarded by a sole scare-crow and a plant-pot seraph it yields rich treasure. The garish clash of kale leaves, the delicate filigree scent of the far-wall herb section.
The house is shrouded in mist too. A memorial of lit poppies in a side room reminds us of the dull muddied murder of the First World War. Even more poignant, the diaries of George Ash, the original restorer of Packwood House, have been copied and blown up into stiffened sheets of paper. Molded into a series of model barrage balloons they are a fitting tribute to George's service as a war-time pilot.
We walk in silence. Guests in this special place and time.
