A last flare of summer among the rocks

Bosley Cloud, Cheshire As folklore has it, witches used juices squeezed from the flowers to turn themselves into hares; the Victorians believed fairies slept in the bells

Today the sky is washed-out blue silk with pearl-grey ribbons trailing. The scent of dying leaves mingles with honeysuckle as the sun rises; buttery light spreads over patchwork fields, illuminating snapshot moments: a circle of cows, a squabble of hens, donkeys and even alpacas the colour of mushroom caps and conkers.

I am walking the lower slopes of Bosley Cloud - the name is derived from the Old English clud, meaning a rock; it lies on the Cheshire-Staffordshire border near Congleton, a few miles from the Peak District national park. Notices nailed to trees tell of sheepdog trials. At the farm there are logs, small hay bales and free-range eggs for sale. The plaintive song of a robin comes from the allotment, I hear it among the neat rows of beans, peas and shaggy-headed dahlias, but can't see it. Above, there is the twittering babble of swallows gathering on telegraph wires. Hedgerows glisten with silvery spiders' webs, scarlet rosehips and clots of blackberries. Somewhere in the distance a gun goes off and a flock of wood pigeons take flight.